THERE  ARE 

CRIMES 
AND  CRIMES 

AUGUST 
STRINDBERG 

TRANSLATED  BY 

EDWIN  BJORKMAN 


ITllilIn 


,l!|K-',' 


li.iiliilhni'' 


lii 


iimin,- 


lll>SlllllllllllIIII[f>ltIllIt' I 


•1  i»i»i-i»i«iiiii»itikiiiH«tti! :•' i;  1:  ;iiS*M^ 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

RIVERSIDE 


tBniKAHO    SKlTH't 

"ACRES  OF  B0OKS^ 

63  3    MA«N    ST. 

•awcmNAn.      ,    one 


/ 


PLAYS  BY  AUGUST  STRINDBERG 
Published  bt  CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 

THERE  ARE  CRIMES  AND  CRIMES 

75  cents  net;  postage  extra 

PLAYS:    The  Dream   Play,  The   Link,  The   Dance  of 
Death— Part  I  and  Part  II 

SI. 50  net;  postage  extra 


THERE  ARE 
CRIMES  AND  CRIMES 


THERE  ARE 
CRIMES  AND  CRIMES 

A  COMEDY 

BY 

AUGUST   STRINDBERG 


TRANSLATED    FROM    THE   SWEDISH    WITH     AN    INTRODUCTION   BY 

EDWIN  BJORKMAN 


AUTHORIZED    EDITION 


NEW  YORK 

CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 

1912 


'B1A3 


Copyright,  1912,  by 
CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 


Published  May,  1912 


INTRODUCTION 


INTRODUCTION 

Strindberg  was  fifty  years  old  when  he  wrote  "There 
Are  Crimes  and  Crimes."  In  the  same  year,  1899,  he  pro- 
duced three  of  his  finest  historical  dramas:  "The  Saga  of 
the  Folkungs,"  "Gustavus  Vasa,"  and  "Eric  XIV."  Just 
before,  he  had  finished  "Advent,"  which  he  described  as 
"A  Mystery,"  and  which  was  published  together  with 
"There  Are  Crimes  and  Crimes"  under  the  common  title  of 
"In  a  Higher  Court."  Back  of  these  dramas  lay  his 
strange  confessional  works,  "Inferno"  and  "Legends,"  and 
the  first  two  parts  of  his  autobiographical  dream-plaj', 
"Toward  Damascus" — all  of  which  were  finished  between 
May,  1897,  and  some  time  in  the  latter  part  of  1898.  And 
back  of  these  again  lay  that  period  of  mental  crisis,  when,  at 
Paris,  in  1895  and  189G,  he  strove  to  make  gold  by  the  trans- 
mutation of  baser  metals,  while  at  the  same  time  his  spirit 
was  travelling  through  all  the  seven  hells  in  its  search  for 
the  heaven  promised  by  the  great  mystics  of  the  past. 

"There  Are  Crimes  and  Crimes"  may,  in  fact,  be  regarded 
as  his  first  definite  step  beyond  that  crisis,  of  which  the  pre- 
ceding works  were  at  once  the  record  and  closing  chord. 
When,  in  1909,  he  issued  "The  Author,"  being  a  long  with- 
held fourth  part  of  his  first  autobiographical  series,  "The 
Bondwoman's  Son,"  he  prefixed  to  it  an  analytical  summary  of 
the  entire  body  of  his  work.  Opposite  the  works  from  1897-8 
appears  in  this  summary  the  following  passage:  "The  great 
crisis  at  the  age  of  fiftj';  revolutions  in  the  life  of  the  soul, 
desert  wanderings,  Swedenborgian  Heavens  and  Hells."  But 
concerning  "There  Are  Crimes  and  Crimes"  and  the  three 

3 


4  INTRODUCTION 

historical  dramas  from  the  same  year  he  writes  triumphantly: 
"Light  after  darkness;  new  productivity,  with  recovered 
Faith,  Hope  and  Love — and  with  full,  rock-firm  Certitude." 

In  its  German  version  the  play  is  named  "Rausch,"  or 
"Intoxication,"  which  indicates  the  part  played  by  the  cham- 
pagne in  the  plunge  of  Maurice  from  the  pinnacles  of  success 
to  the  depths  of  misfortune.  Strindberg  has  more  and  more 
come  to  see  that  a  moderation  verging  closely  on  asceticism 
is  wise  for  most  men  and  essential  to  the  man  of  genius  who 
wants  to  fulfil  his  divine  mission.  And  he  does  not  scorn  to 
press  home  even  this  comparatively  humble  lesson  with  the 
na'ive  directness  and  fiery  zeal  which  form  such  conspicuous 
features  of  all  his  work. 

But  in  the  title  which  bound  it  to  "x\dvent"  at  their  joint 
publication  we  have  a  better  clue  to  what  the  author  himself 
undoubtedly  regards  as  the  most  important  element  of  his 
work — its  religious  tendency.  The  "higher  court,"  in 
which  are  tried  the  crimes  of  Maurice,  Adolphe,  and  Henri- 
ette,  is,  of  course,  the  highest  one  that  man  can  imagine. 
And  the  crimes  of  which  they  have  all  become  guilty  are 
those  which,  as  Adolphe  remarks,  "are  not  mentioned  in  the 
criminal  code" — in  a  word,  crimes  against  the  spirit,  against 
the  impalpable  power  that  moves  us,  against  God.  The 
play,  seen  in  this  light,  pictures  a  deep-reaching  spiritual 
change,  leading  us  step  by  step  from  the  soul  adrift  on  the 
waters  of  life  to  the  state  where  it  is  definitely  oriented  and 
impelled. 

There  are  two  distinct  currents  discernible  in  this  dramatic 
revelation  of  progress  from  spiritual  chaos  to  spiritual  order 
— for  to  order  the  play  must  be  said  to  lead,  and  progress  is 
implied  in  its  onward  movement,  if  there  be  anything  at  all 
in  our  growing  modern  conviction  that  any  vital  faith  is 
better  than  none  at  all.     One  of  the  currents  in  question  re- 


INTRODUCTION  5 

fers  to  the  means  rather  than  the  end,  to  the  road  rather  than 
the  goal.  It  brings  us  back  to  those  uncanny  soul-adven- 
tures by  which  Strindberg  himself  won  his  way  to  the  "full, 
rock-firm  Certitude"  of  which  the  play  in  its  entirety  is  the 
first  tangible  expression.  The  elements  entering  into  this 
current  are  not  only  mystical,  but  occult.  They  are  derived 
in  part  from  Swedenborg,  and  in  part  from  that  picturesque 
French  dreamer  who  signs  himself  "  Sar  Peladan  " ;  but  mostly 
they  have  sprung  out  of  Strindberg's  own  experiences  in 
moments  of  abnormal  tension. 

What  happened,  or  seemed  to  happen,  to  himself  at  Paris 
in  1895,  and  what  he  later  described  with  such  bewildering 
exactitude  in  his  "Inferno"  and  "Legends,"  all  this  is  here 
presented  in  dramatic  form,  but  a  little  toned  down,  both  to 
suit  the  needs  of  the  stage  and  the  calmer  mood  of  the  author. 
Coincidence  is  law.  It  is  the  finger-point  of  Providence,  the 
signal  to  man  that  he  must  beware.  Mystery  is  the  gospel: 
the  secret  knitting  of  man  to  man,  of  fact  to  fact,  deep  be- 
neath the  surface  of  visible  and  audible  existence.  Few 
writers  could  take  us  into  such  a  realm  of  probable  impossi- 
bilities and  possible  improbabilities  without  losing  all  claim 
to  serious  consideration.  If  Strindberg  has  thus  ventured  to 
our  gain  and  no  loss  of  his  own,  his  success  can  be  explained 
only  by  the  presence  in  the  play  of  that  second,  parallel 
current  of  thought  and  feeling. 

This  deeper  current  is  as  simple  as  the  one  nearer  the  sur- 
face is  fantastic.  It  is  the  manifestation  of  that  "rock-firm 
Certitude"  to  which  I  have  already  referred.  And  nothing 
will  bring  us  nearer  to  it  than  Strindberg's  own  confession  of 
faith,  given  in  his  "Speeches  to  the  Swedish  Nation"  two 
years  ago.  In  that  pamphlet  there  is  a  chapter  headed  "Re- 
ligion," in  which  occurs  this  passage:  "Since  1896  I  have 
been  calling  myself  a  Christian.     I  am  not  a  Catholic,  and 


6  INTRODUCTION 

have  never  been,  but  during  a  stay  of  seven  years  in  Catholic 
countries  and  among  Catholic  relatives,  I  discovered  that  the 
difference  between  Catholic  and  Protestant  tenets  is  either 
none  at  all,  or  else  wholly  superficial,  and  that  the  division 
which  once  occurred  was  merely  political  or  else  concerned 
with  theological  problems  not  fundamentally  germane  to  the 
religion  itself.  A  registered  Protestant  I  am  and  will  remain, 
but  I  can  hardly  be  called  orthodox  or  evangelistic,  but 
come  nearest  to  being  a  Swedenborgian.  I  use  my  Bible 
Christianity  internally  and  privately  to  tame  my  somewhat 
decivilized  nature — decivilised  by  that  veterinary  philosophy 
and  animal  science  (Darwinism)  in  which,  as  student  at  the 
university,  I  was  reared.  And  I  assure  my  fellow-beings 
that  they  have  no  right  to  complain  because,  according  to 
my  ability,  I  practise  the  Christian  teachings.  For  only 
through  religion,  or  the  hope  of  something  better,  and  the 
recognition  of  the  innermost  meaning  of  life  as  that  of  an 
ordeal,  a  school,  or  perhaps  a  penitentiary,  will  it  be  possible 
to  bear  the  burden  of  life  with  sufficient  resignation." 

Here,  as  alsewhere,  it  is  made  patent  that  Strindberg's  re- 
ligiosity always,  on  closer  analysis,  reduces  itself  to  morality. 
At  bottom  he  is  first  and  last,  and  has  always  been,  a  moral- 
ist— a  man  passionately  craving  to  know  what  is  right  and 
to  do  it.  During  the  middle,  naturalistic  period  of  his 
creative  career,  this  fundamental  tendency  was  in  part  ob- 
scured, and  he  engaged  in  the  game  of  intellectual  curiosity 
known  as  "truth  for  truth's  own  sake."  One  of  the  chief 
marks  of  his  final  and  mystical  period  is  his  greater  courage 
to  "be  himself"  in  this  respect — and  this  means  necessarily 
a  return,  or  an  advance,  to  a  position  which  the  late  William 
James  undoubtedly  would  have  acknowledged  as  "prag- 
matic." To  combat  the  assertion  of  over-developed  indi- 
vidualism that  we  are  ends  in  ourselves,  that  we  have  cer- 


INTRODUCTION  7 

tain  inalienable  personal  "rights"  to  pleasure  and  happiness 
merely  because  we  happen  to  appear  here  in  human  shape, 
this  is  one  of  Strindberg's  most  ardent  aims  in  all  his  later 
works. 

As  to  the  higher  and  more  inclusive  object  to  which  our 
lives  must  be  held  subservient,  he  is  not  dogmatic.  It  may 
be  another  life.  He  calls  it  God.  And  the  code  of  service 
he  finds  in  the  tenets  of  ail  the  Christian  churches,  but  prin- 
cipally in  the  Commandments.  The  plain  and  primitive 
virtues,  the  faith  that  implies  little  more  than  square  dealing 
between  man  and  man — these  figure  foremost  in  Strindberg's 
ideals.  In  an  age  of  supreme  self-seeking  like  ours,  such  an 
outlook  would  seem  to  have  small  chance  of  popularity,  but 
that  it  embodies  just  what  the  time  most  needs  is,  perhaps, 
made  evident  by  the  reception  which  the  public  almost  in- 
variably grants  "There  Are  Crimes  and  Crimes"  when  it  is 
staged. 

With  all  its  apparent  disregard  of  what  is  commonly  called 
realism,  and  with  its  occasional,  but  quite  unblushing,  use  of 
methods  generally  held  superseded — such  as  the  casual  intro- 
duction of  characters  at  whatever  moment  they  happen  to  be 
needed  on  the  stage — it  has,  from  the  start,  been  among  the 
most  frequently  played  and  most  enthusiastically  received 
of  Strindberg's  later  dramas.  At  Stockholm  it  was  first 
taken  up  by  the  Royal  Dramatic  Theatre,  and  was  later 
seen  on  the  tiny  stage  of  the  Intimate  Theatre,  then  de- 
voted exclusively  to  Strindberg's  works.  It  was  one  of  the 
earliest  plays  staged  by  Reinhardt  while  he  was  still  experi- 
menting with  his  Little  Theatre  at  Berlin,  and  it  has  also 
been  given  in  numerous  German  cities,  as  well  as  in  Vienna- 
Concerning  my  own  version  of  the  play  I  wish  to  add  a 
word  of  explanation.  Strindberg  has  laid  the  scene  in  Paris. 
Not  only  the  scenery,  but  the  people  and  the  circumstances 


8  INTRODUCTION 

are  French.  Yet  he  has  made  no  attempt  whatever  to  make 
the  dialogue  reflect  French  manners  of  speaking  or  ways  of 
thinking.  As  he  has  given  it  to  us,  the  play  is  French  only 
in  its  most  superficial  aspect,  in  its  setting — and  this  setting 
he  has  chosen  simply  because  he  needed  a  certain  machinery 
offered  him  by  the  Catholic,  but  not  by  the  Protestant, 
churches.  The  rest  of  the  play  is  purely  human  in  its  note 
and  wholly  universal  in  its  spirit.  For  this  reason  I  have 
retained  the  French  names  and  titles,  but  have  otherwise 
striven  to  bring  everything  as  close  as  possible  to  our  own 
modes  of  expression.  Should  apparent  incongruities  result 
from  this  manner  of  treatment,  I  think  they  will  disappear 
if  only  the  reader  will  try  to  remember  that  the  characters 
of  the  play  move  in  an  existence  cunningly  woven  by  the 
author  out  of  scraps  of  ephemeral  reality  in  order  that  he 
may  show  us  the  mirage  of  a  more  enduring  one. 


THERE  ARE 
CRIMES  AND  CRIMES 

A  COMEDY 


1899 


CHARACTERS 

Maukice,  a  playioright 

Jeanne,  his  mistress 

Marion,  their  daughter.  Jive  years  old 

Adolphe,  a  painter 

Henriette,  his  mistress 

Emile,  a  loorkman,  brother  of  Jeanne 

Madame  Catherine 

The  Abbe 

A  Watchman 

A  Head  Waiter 

A  COMMISSAIRE 

Two  Detectives 

A  Waiter 

A  Guard 

A  Servant  Girl 

Act     I,  Scene  1.  The  Cemetery 

2.  The  Cremerie 
Act    II,  Scene  1.  The  Auberge  Des  Adrets 

2.  The  Bois  De  Boulogne 
Act  III,  Scene  1.  The  Cremerie 

2.  The  Auberge  Des  Adrets 
Act  IV,  Scene  1.  The  Luxembourg  Gardens 

2.  The  Cremerie 

All  the  scenes  are  laid  in  Paris 


THERE  ARE 
CRIMES  AND  CRIMES 

ACT  I 

FIRST   SCENE 

The  upper  avenue  of  cypresses  in  the  Montparnasse  Cemetery 
at  Paris.  The  background  shows  mortuary  chapels,  stone 
crosses  on  which  are  inscribed  "0  Crux!  Ave  Spes  Unica!" 
and  the  ruins  of  a  loind-mill  covered  with  ivy. 

A  well-dressed  woman  in  widow's  weeds  is  kneeling  and  mutter- 
ing prayers  in  front  of  a  grave  decorated  with  flowers. 

Jeanne  is  walking  back  and  forth  as  if  expecting  somebody. 

Marion  is  playing  with  some  withered  flowers  picked  from  a 
rubbish  heap  on  the  ground. 

The  Abbe  is  reading  his  breviary  while  walking  along  the 
further  end  of  the  avenue. 

Watchman.  [Enters  and  goes  up  to  Jeanne]  Look  here, 
this  is  no  playground. 

Jeanne.  [Submissively]  I  am  only  waiting  for  somebody 
who'll  soon  be  here 

Watchman.  All  right,  but  you're  not  allowed  to  pick  any 
jBowers. 

Jeanne.  [To  Marion]  Drop  the  flowers,  dear. 

Abbe.  [Comes  forioard  and  is  saluted  by  the  Watchman] 
Can't  the  child  play  with  the  flowers  that  have  been  thrown 
away.' 

Watchman.  The  regulations  don't  permit  anybody  to 
touch  even  the  flowers  that  have  been  thrown  away,  because 

11 


12  THEREARECRIMES  acti 

it's  believed  they  may  spread  infection — which  I  don't  know 
if  it's  true. 

Abbe.  [To  Marion]  In  that  case  we  have  to  obey,  of 
course.     What's  your  name,  my  Httle  girl.'' 

Marion.  My  name  is  Marion. 

Abbe.  And  who  is  your  father? 

Marion  begins  to  bite  one  of  Iter  fingers  and  does  not 
answer. 

Abbe.  Pardon  my  question,  madame.     I  had  no  intention 
— I  was  just  talking  to  keep  the  little  one  quiet. 
The  Watchman  has  gone  out. 

Jeanne.  I  understood  it,  Reverend  Father,  and  I  wish 
you  would  say  something  to  quiet  me  also.  I  feel  very  much 
disturbed  after  having  waited  here  two  hours. 

Abbe.  Two  hours — for  him!  How  these  human  beings 
torture  each  other!     O  Crux!     Ave  spes  unica! 

Jeanne.  What  do  they  mean,  those  words  you  read  all 
around  here? 

Abbe.  They  mean:  O  cross,  our  only  hope! 

Jeanne.  Is  it  the  only  one? 

Abbe.  The  only  certain  one. 

Jeanne.  I  shall  soon  believe  that  you  are  right.  Father. 

Abbe.  May  I  ask  why? 

Jeanne.  You  have  already  guessed  it.  When  he  lets  the 
woman  and  the  child  wait  two  hours  in  a  cemetery,  then  the 
end  is  not  far  off. 

Abbe.  And  when  he  has  left  you,  what  then? 

Jeanne.  Then  we  have  to  go  into  the  river. 

Abbe.  Oh,  no,  no! 

Jeanne.  Yes,  yes! 

Marion.  Mamma,  I  want  to  go  home,  for  I  am  hungry. 

Jeanne.  Just  a  little  longer,  dear,  and  we'll  go  home. 

Abbe.  Woe  unto  those  who  call  evil  good  and  good  evil. 


ACT  I  AND  CRIMES  13 

Jeanne.  Wliat  is  that  woman  doing  at  the  grave  over 
there? 

Abbe.  She  seems  to  be  talking  to  the  dead. 

Jeanne.  But  you  cannot  do  that.'* 

Abbe.  She  seems  to  know  how. 

Jeanne.  This  would  mean  that  the  end  of  life  is  not  the 
end  of  our  misery? 

Abbe.  And  you  don't  know  it? 

Jeanne.  Where  can  I  find  out? 

Abbe.  Hm!  The  next  time  you  feel  as  if  you  wanted  to 
learn  about  this  well-known  matter,  you  can  look  me  up  in 
Our  Lady's  Chapel  at  the  Church  of  St.  Germain —  Here 
comes  the  one  you  are  waiting  for,  I  guess. 

Jeanne.  [Embarrassed]  No,  he  is  not  the  one,  but  I  know 
him. 

Abbe.  [To  Marion]  Good-bye,  little  Marion!  May  God 
take  care  of  you!  [Kisses  the  child  and  goes  out]  At  St.  Ger- 
main des  Pres. 

Emile.  [Enters]  Good  morning,  sister.  What  are  you 
doing  here? 

Jeanne.  I  am  waiting  for  Maurice. 

Emile.  Then  I  guess  you'll  have  a  lot  of  waiting  to  do,  for 
I  saw  him  on  the  boulevard  an  hour  ago,  taking  breakfast 
with  some  friends.  [Kissing  the  child]  Good  morning,  Marion. 

Jeanne.  Ladies  also? 

Emile.  Of  course.  But  that  doesn't  mean  anything.  He 
writes  plays,  and  his  latest  one  has  its  first  performance 
to-night.     I  suppose  he  had  with  him  some  of  the  actresses. 

Jeanne.  Did  he  recognise  you? 

Emile.  No,  he  doesn't  know  who  I  am,  and  it  is  Just  as 
well.  I  know  my  place  as  a  workman,  and  I  don't  care  for 
any  condescension  from  those  that  are  above  me. 

Jeanne.  But  if  he  leaves  us  without  anything  to  live  on? 


14  THERE  ARE   CRIMES  acti 

Emile.  Well,  you  see,  when  it  gets  that  far,  then  I  suppose 
I  shall  have  to  introduce  myself.  But  you  don't  expect  any- 
thing of  the  kind,  do  you — seeing  that  he  is  fond  of  you  and 
very  much  attached  to  the  child? 

Jeanne.  I  don't  know,  but  I  have  a  feeling  that  something 
dreadful  is  in  store  for  me. 

Emile.  Has  he  promised  to  marry  you.'^ 

Jeanne.  No,  not  promised  exactly,  but  he  has  held  out 
hopes. 

Emile.  Hopes,  yes!  Do  you  remember  my  words  at  the 
start:  don't  hope  for  anything,  for  those  above  us  don't 
marry  downward. 

Jeanne.  But  such  things  have  happened. 

Emile.  Yes,  they  have  happened.  But  would  you  feel  at 
home  in  his  world .^  I  can't  believe  it,  for  you  wouldn't  even 
understand  what  they  were  talking  of.  Now  and  then  I  take 
my  meals  where  he  is  eating — out  in  the  kitchen  is  my  place, 
of  course — and  I  don't  make  out  a  word  of  what  they  say. 

Jeanne.  So  you  take  your  meals  at  that  place.'' 

Emile.  Yes,  in  the  kitchen. 

Jeanne.  And  think  of  it,  he  has  never  asked  me  to  come 
with  him. 

Emile.  Well,  that's  rather  to  his  credit,  and  it  shows  he 
has  some  respect  for  the  mother  of  his  child.  The  women 
over  there  are  a  queer  lot. 

Jeanne.  Is  that  so.'' 

Emile.  But  Maurice  never  pays  any  attention  to  the 
women.     There  is  something  square  about  that  fellow. 

Jeanne.  That's  what  I  feel  about  him,  too,  but  as  soon  as 
there  is  a  woman  in  it,  a  man  isn't  himself  any  longer. 

Emile.  [Smiling]  You  don't  tell  me!  But  listen:  are  you 
hard  up  for  money? 

Jeanne.  No,  nothing  of  that  kind. 


ACT  I 


AND   CRIMES  15 


Emile.  Well,  then  the  worst  hasn't  come  yet —  Look! 
Over  there!  There  he  comes.  And  I'll  leave  you.  Good-bye, 
little  girl. 

Jeanne.  Is  he  coming?     Yes,  that's  him. 

Emile.  Don't  make  him  mad  now — with  your  jealousy, 
Jeanne!  [Goes  out. 

Jeanne.  No,  I  won't. 
Maurice  enters. 

Marion.  [Runs  up  to  him  and  is  lifted  up  into  his  arms] 
Papa,  papa! 

Maurice.  My  little  girl !  [Greets  Jeanne]  Can  you  forgive 
me,  Jeanne,  that  I  have  kept  you  waiting  so  long? 

Jeanne.  Of  course  I  can. 

Maurice.  But  say  it  in  such  a  way  that  I  can  hear  that 
you  are  forgiving  me. 

Jeanne.  Come  here  and  let  me  whisper  it  to  you. 
Maurice  goes  up  close  to  her. 
Jeanne  kisses  him  on  the  cheek. 

Maurice.  I  didn't  hear. 

Jeanne  kisses  him  on  the  mouth. 

Maurice.  Now  I  heard !  Well — you  know,  I  suppose  that 
this  is  the  day  that  will  settle  my  fate?  My  play  is  on  for 
to-night,  and  there  is  every  chance  that  it  will  succeed— or 
fail. 

Jeanne.  I'll  make  sure  of  success  by  praying  for  you. 

Maurice.  Thank  you.  If  it  doesn't  help,  it  can  at  least 
do  no  harm —  Look  over  there,  down  there  in  the  valley, 
where  the  haze  is  thickest:  there  lies  Paris.  To-day  Paris 
doesn't  know  who  Maurice  is,  but  it  is  going  to  know  within 
twenty-four  hours.  The  haze,  which  has  kept  me  obscured 
for  thirty  years,  will  vanish  before  my  breath,  and  I  shall 
become  visible,  I  shall  assume  definite  shape  and  begin  to  be 
somebody.     My  enemies — which  means  all  who  would  like 


16  THERE  ARE   CRIMES  act  i 

to  do  what  I  have  done — will  be  writhing  in  pains  that  shall 
be  my  pleasures,  for  they  will  be  suffering  all  that  I  have 
suffered. 

Jeanne.  Don't  talk  that  way,  don't! 

Maurice.  But  that's  the  way  it  is. 

Jeanne.  Yes,  but  don't  speak  of  it —     And  then.^ 

Maurice.  Then  we  are  on  firm  ground,  and  then  you  and 
Marion  will  bear  the  name  I  have  made  famous. 

Jeanne.  You  love  me  then.'* 

Maurice.  I  love  both  of  you,  equally  much,  or  perhaps 
Marion  a  little  more. 

Jeanne.  I  am  glad  of  it,  for  you  can  grow  tired  of  me,  but 
not  of  her. 

Maurice.  Have  you  no  confidence  in  my  feelings  toward 
you.? 

Jeanne,  I  don't  know,  but  I  am  afraid  of  something, 
afraid  of  something  terrible 

Maurice.  You  are  tired  out  and  depressed  by  your  long 
wait,  which  once  more  I  ask  you  to  forgive.  What  have  you 
to  be  afraid  of.-* 

Jeanne.  The  unexpected:  that  which  you  may  foresee 
without  having  any  particular  reason  to  do  so. 

Maurice.  But  I  foresee  only  success,  and  I  have  particular 
reasons  for  doing  so:  the  keen  instincts  of  the  management 
and  their  knowledge  of  the  public,  not  to  speak  of  their  per- 
sonal acquaintance  with  the  critics.  So  now  you  must  be 
in  good  spirits 

Jeanne.  I  can't,  I  can't!  Do  you  know,  there  was  an 
Abbe  here  a  while  ago,  who  talked  so  beautifully  to  us.  My 
faith — which  you  haven't  destroyed,  but  just  covered  up, 
as  when  j'ou  put  chalk  on  a  window  to  clean  it — I  couldn't 
lay  hold  on  it  for  that  reason,  but  this  old  man  just  passed 
his  hand  over  the  chalk,  and  the  light  came  through,  and  it 


ACT  I 


AND  CRIMES  17 


was  possible  again  to  see  that  the  people  within  were  at 
home —     To-night  I  will  pray  for  you  at  St.  Germain. 

Maurice.  Now  I  am  getting  scared. 

Jeanne.  Fear  of  God  is  the  beginning  of  wisdom. 

Maurice.  God?     What  is  that.''     Who  is  he.'^ 

Jeanne.  It  was  he  who  gave  joy  to  your  youth  and  strength 
to  your  manhood.  And  it  is  he  who  will  carry  us  through 
the  terrors  that  lie  ahead  of  us. 

Maurice.  What  is  lying  ahead  of  us?  What  do  you 
know?  Where  have  you  learned  of  this?  This  thing  that  I 
don't  know? 

Jeanne.  I  can't  tell.  I  have  dreamt  notliing,  seen 
nothing,  heard  nothing.  But  during  these  two  dreadful 
hours  I  have  experienced  such  an  infinity  of  pam  that  I  am 
ready  for  the  worst. 

Marion.  Now  I  want  to  go  home,  mamma,  for  I  am 
hungry. 

Maurice.  Yes,  you'll  go  home  now,  my  little  darling. 

[Takes  her  into  his  arms. 

Marion.  [Shrinking]  Oh,  you  hurt  me,  papa! 

Jeanne.  Yes,  we  must  get  home  for  dinner.  Good-bye 
then,  Maurice.     And  good  luck  to  you! 

Maurice.  [To  Marion]  How  did  I  hurt  you?  Doesn't 
my  little  girl  know  that  I  always  want  to  be  nice  to  her? 

Marion.  If  you  are  nice,  you'll  come  home  with  us. 

Maurice.  [To  Jeanne]  When  I  hear  the  child  talk  like 
that,  you  know,  I  feel  as  if  I  ought  to  do  what  she  says.  But 
then  reason  and  duty  protest —  Good-bye,  my  dear  little 
girl!     [He  kisses  the  child,  who  puts  her  arms  around  his  neck. 

Jeanne.  When  do  we  meet  again? 

Maurice.  We'll  meet  to-morrow,  dear.  And  then  we'll 
never  part  again. 

Jeanne.  [Embraces  him]  Never,  never  to  part  again !  [She 


18  THERE  ARE   CRIMES  acti 

makes  the  sign  of  the  cross  on  his  forehead]  May  God  protect 
you! 

Maurice.  [Moved  against  his  own  will]  My  dear,  beloved 
Jeanne ! 

Jeanne  and  Marion  go  toward  the  right;  Maurice 
toward  the  left.  Both  turn  around  simultaneously  and 
throw  kisses  at  each  other. 

Maurice.  [Comes  back]  Jeanne,  I  am  ashamed  of  myself. 
I  am  always  forgetting  you,  and  you  are  the  last  one  to  re- 
mind me  of  it.     Here  are  the  tickets  for  to-night. 

Jeanne.  Thank  you,  dear,  but — you  have  to  take  up  your 
post  of  duty  alone,  and  so  I  have  to  take  up  mine — with 
Marion. 

Maurice.  Your  wisdom  is  as  great  as  the  goodness  of 
your  heart.  Yes,  I  am  sure  no  other  woman  would  have 
sacrificed  a  pleasure  to  serve  her  husband —  I  must  have 
my  hands  free  to-night,  and  there  is  no  place  for  women  and 
children  on  the  battle-field — and  this  you  understood ! 

Jeanne.  Don't  think  too  highly  of  a  poor  woman  like  my- 
self, and  then  you'll  have  no  illusions  to  lose.  And  now  you'll 
see  that  I  can  be  as  forgetful  as  you — I  have  bought  you  a 
tie  and  a  pair  of  gloves  which  I  thought  you  might  wear  for 
my  sake  on  your  day  of  honour. 

Maurice.  [Kissing  her  hand]  Thank  you,  dear. 

Jeanne.  And  then,  Maurice,  don't  forget  to  have  your 
hair  fixed,  as  you  do  all  the  time.  I  want  you  to  be  good- 
looking,  so  that  others  will  like  you  too. 

Maurice.  There  is  no  jealousy  in  you! 
^^      Jeanne.  Don't    mention    that    word,    for    evil    thoughts 
spring  from  it. 

Maurice.  Just  now  I  feel  as  if  I  could  give  up  this  even- 
ing's victory — for  I  am  going  to  win 

Jeanne.  Hush,  hush! 


ACT  I 


AND   CRIMES  19 


Maurice.  And  go  home  with  you  instead. 

Jeanne.  But  you  mustn't  do  that!  Go  now:  your  destiny 
is  waiting  for  you. 

Maurice.  Good-bye  then!  And  may  that  happen  which 
must  happen!  [Goes  out. 

Jeanne.  [Alone  with  Marion]  O  Crux!    Ave  spes  unica! 

Curtain. 


SECOND  SCENE 

The  Cremerie.  On  the  right  stands  a  buffet,  on  which  are  placed 
an  aquarium  ivith  goldfish  and  dishes  containing  vege- 
tables, fruit,  preserves,  etc.  In  the  background  is  a  door 
leading  to  the  kitcJien,  wJiere  loorkmen  are  taking  their 
meals.  At  the  other  end  of  the  kitchen  can  be  seen  a  door 
leading  out  to  a  garden.  On  the  left,  in  the  background, 
stands  a  counter  on  a  raised  platform,  and  back  of  it  are 
shelves  contairiing  all  sorts  of  bottles.  On  the  right,  a  long 
table  with  a  marble  top  is  placed  along  the  wall,  and  another 
table  is  placed  parallel  to  the  first  further  out  on  the  floor. 
Straw-bottomed  chairs  stand  around  the  tables.  The  walls 
are  covered  ivith  oil-paintings. 

Mme.  Catherine  is  sitting  at  the  counter. 

Maurice  stands  leanirig  against  it.  He  has  his  hat  on  and  is 
smoking  a  cigarette. 

Mme.  Catherine.  So  it's  to-night  the  great  event  comes 
off.  Monsieur  Maurice? 
Maurice.  Yes,  to-night. 
Mme.  Catherine.  Do  you  feel  upset? 
Maurice.  Cool  as  a  cucumber. 
Mme,  Catherine.  Well,  I  wish  you  luck  anyhow,  and  you 


20  THEREARECRIMES  acti 

have  deserved  it,  Monsieur  Maurice,  after  having  had  to 
fight  against  such  difficulties  as  yours. 

Maurice.  Thank  you,  Madame  Catherine.  You  have 
been  very  kind  to  me,  and  without  your  help  I  should  proba- 
bly have  been  down  and  out  by  this  time. 

Mme.  Catherine.  Don't  let  us  talk  of  that  now.  I  help 
along  where  I  see  hard  work  and  the  right  kind  of  will,  but  I 
don't  want  to  be  exploited —  Can  we  trust  you  to  come 
back  here  after  the  play  and  let  us  drink  a  glass  with  you.^ 

Maurice.  Yes,  you  can — of  course,  you  can,  as  I  have 
already  promised  you. 

Henriette  enters  from  the  right. 

Maurice  turns  around,  raises  his  hat,  and  stares  at 
Henriette,  who  looks  him  over  carefully. 

Henriette,  Monsieur  Adolphe  is  not  here  yet.'* 

Mme.  Catherine.  No,  madame.  But  he'll  soon  be  here 
now.     Won't  you  sit  down.'' 

Henriette.  No,  thank  you,  I'll  rather  wait  for  him  out- 
side. [Goes  out. 

Maurice.  Who — was — that? 

Mme.  Catherine.  Why,  that's  Monsieur  Adolphe's  friend. 

Maurice.  Was — that — her.^ 

Mme.  Catherine.  Have  you  never  seen  her  before? 

Maurice.  No,  he  has  been  hiding  her  from  me,  just  as  if 
he  was  afraid  I  might  take  her  away  from  him. 

Mme.  Catherine.  Ha-ha! —  Well,  how  did  you  think  she 
looked? 

Maurice.  How  she  looked?  Let  me  see:  I  can't  tell — 
I  didn't  see  her,  for  it  was  as  if  she  had  rushed  straight  into 
my  arms  at  once  and  come  so  close  to  me  that  I  couldn't 
make  out  her  features  at  all.  And  she  left  her  impression 
on  the  air  behind  her.  I  can  still  see  her  standing  there. 
[He  goes  toward  the  door  and  makes  a  gesture  as  if  putting  his 


ACT  I  AND   CRIMES  21 

arm  around  somebody]  Whew!  [He  makes  a  gesture  as  if  he  had 
pricked  his  finger]  There  are  pins  in  her  waist.  She  is  of  the 
kind  that  stings ! 

Mme.  Catherine,  Oh,  you  are  crazy,  you  with  your 
ladies ! 

Maurice.  Yes,  it's  craziness,  that's  what  it  is.  But  do 
you  know,  Madame  Catherine,  I  am  going  before  she  comes 
back,  or  else,  or  else —     Oh,  that  woman  is  horrible! 

Mme.  Catherine.  Are  you  afraid? 

Maurice.  Yes,  I  am  afraid  for  myself,  and  also  for  some 
others. 

IVIme.  Catherine.  Well,  go  then. 

Maurice.  She  seemed  to  suck  herself  out  through  the 
door,  and  in  her  wake  rose  a  little  whirlwind  that  dragged  me 
along —  Yes,  you  may  laugh,  but  can't  you  see  that  the 
palm  over  there  on  the  buffet  is  still  shaking?  She's  the 
very  devil  of  a  woman ! 

Mme.  Catherine.  Oh,  get  out  of  here,  man,  before  you 
lose  all  your  reason. 

Maurice.  I  want  to  go,  but  I  cannot —  Do  you  believe 
in  fate,  Madame  Catherine? 

Mme.  Catherine.  No,  I  believe  in  a  good  God,  who  pro- 
tects us  against  evil  powers  if  we  ask  Him  in  the  right  way. 

Maurice.  So  there  are  evil  powers  af ter^  all !  I  thmk  I 
can  hear  them  in  the  hallway  now. 

Mme.  Catherine.  Yes,  her  clothes  rustle  as  when  the 
clerk  tears  off  a  piece  of  linen  for  you.  Get  away  now — 
through  the  kitchen. 

Maurice  rushes  toward  the  kitchen  door,  where  he  bumps 
into  Emile.   ' 

Emile.  I  beg  your  pardon.  [He  retires  the  way  he  came. 

Adolphe.  [Comes  m  first;  after  him  Henriette]  Why, 
there's  Maurice.     How  are  you?    Let  me  introduce  this  lady 


22  THEREARECRIMES  acti 

here  to  my  oldest  and  best  friend.    Mademoiselle  Henriette — 
Monsieur  Maurice. 

Maurice.  [Saluting  stiffly]  Pleased  to  meet  you. 

Henriette.  We  have  seen  each  other  before. 

Adolphe.  Is  that  so?     When,  if  I  may  ask? 

Maurice.  A  moment  ago.     Right  here. 

Adolphe.  0-oh!—  But  now  you  must  stay  and  have  a 
chat  with  us. 

Maurice.  [After  a  glance  at  Mme.  Catherine]  If  I  only 
had  time. 

Adolphe.  Take  the  time.  And  we  won't  be  sitting  here 
very  long. 

Henriette.  I  won't  interrupt,  if  you  have  to  talk  business. 

Maurice.  The  only  business  we  have  is  so  bad  that  we 
don't  want  to  talk  of  it. 

Henriette.  Then  we'll  talk  of  something  else.  [Takes  the 
hat  away  from  Maurice  and  hangs  it  up]  Now  be  nice,  and 
let  me  become  acquainted  with  the  great  author. 

Mme.  Catherine  signals  to  Maurice,  who  doesn't  no- 
tice her. 

Adolphe.  That's  right,  Henriette,  you  take  charge  of  him. 
[They  seat  themselves  at  one  of  the  tables. 

Henriette.  [To  Maurice]  You  certamly  have  a  good 
friend  in  Adolphe,  Monsieur  Maurice.  He  never  talks  of 
anything  but  you,  and  in  such  a  way  that  I  feel  myself 
rather  thrown  in  the  background. 

Adolphe.  You  don't  say  so!  Well,  Henriette  on  her  side 
never  leaves  me  in  peace  about  you,  Maurice.  She  has  read 
your  works,  and  she  is  always  wanting  to  know  where  you 
got  this  and  where  that.  She  has  been  questioning  me  about 
your  looks,  your  age,  your  tastes.  I  have,  in  a  word,  had 
you  for  breakfast,  dinner,  and  supper.  It  has  almost  seemed 
as  if  the  three  of  us  were  living  together. 


ACT  I  AND   CRIMES  23 

Maurice.  [To  Henriette]  Heavens,  why  didn't  you  come 
over  here  and  have  a  look  at  this  wonder  of  wonders?  Then 
your  curiosity  could  have  been  satisfied  in  a  trice. 

Henriette.  Adolphe  didn't  want  it. 
Adolphe  looks  embarrassed. 

Henriette.  Not  that  he  was  jealous 

Maurice.  And  why  should  he  be,  when  he  knows  that 
my  feelings  are  tied  up  elsewhere? 

Henriette.  Perhaps  he  didn't  trust  the  stability  of  your 
feelings. 

Maurice.  I  can't  understand  that,  seeing  that  I  am  no- 
torious for  my  constancy. 

Adolphe.  Well,  it  wasn't  that 

Henriette.  [Interrupting  him]  Perhaps  that  is  because 
you  have  not  faced  the  fiery  ordeal 

Adolphe.  Oh,  you  don't  know 

Henriette.  [Interrupting] — for  the  world  has  not  yet  be- 
held a  faithful  man. 

Maurice.  Then  it's  going  to  behold  one. 

Henriette.  Where? 

Maurice.  Here. 

Henriette  laughs. 

Adolphe.  Well,  that's  going  it 

Henriette.  [Interrupting  him  and  directing  herself  con- 
tinuously to  Maurice]  Do  you  think  I  ever  trust  my  dear 
Adolphe  more  than  a  month  at  a  time? 

Maurice.  I  have  no  right  to  question  your  lack  of  con- 
fidence, but  I  can  guarantee  that  Adolphe  is  faithful. 

Henriette.  You  don't  need  to  do  so — my  tongue  is  just 
running  away  with  me,  and  I  have  to  take  back  a  lot — not 
only  for  fear  of  feeling  less  generous  than  you,  but  because  it 
is  the  truth.  It  is  a  bad  habit  I  have  of  onlj'  seeing  the  ugly 
side  of  things,  and  I  keep  it  up  although  I  know  better.     But 


24  THEREARECRIMES  acti 

if  I  had  a  chance  to  be  with  you  two  for  some  time,  then  your 
company  would  make  me  good  once  more.  Pardon  me, 
Adolphe!  [She  puts  her  hand  against  his  cheek. 

Adolphe.  You  are  always  wrong  in  your  talk  and  right  in 
your  actions.     What  you  really  think — that  I  don't  know. 

Henriette.  Who  does  know  that  kind  of  thing? 

Maurice.  Well,  if  we  had  to  answer  for  our  thoughts, 
who  could  then  clear  himself.'* 

Henriette.  Do  you  also  have  evil  thoughts.'' 

Maurice.  Certainly;  just  as  I  commit  the  worst  kind  of 
cruelties  in  my  dreams. 

Henriette.  Oh,  when  you  are  dreaming,  of  course — 
Just  think  of  it —     No,  I  am  ashamed  of  telling 

Maurice,  Go  on,  go  on ! 

Henriette.  Last  night  I  dreamt  that  I  was  coolly  dissect- 
ing the  muscles  on  Adolphe's  breast — you  see,  I  am  a  sculptor 
— and  he,  with  his  usual  kindness,  made  no  resistance,  but 
helped  me  instead  with  the  worst  places,  as  he  knows  more 
anatomy  than  I. 

Maurice.  Was  he  dead.^ 

Henriette.  No,  he  was  living. 

Maurice.  But  that's  horrible!  And  didn't  it  make  you 
suffer.'* 

Henriette.  Not  at  all,  and  that  astonished  me  most,  for 
I  am  rather  sensitive  to  other  people's  sufferings.  Isn't  that 
so,  Adolphe? 

Adolphe.  That's  right.  Rather  abnormally  so,  in  fact, 
and  not  the  least  when  animals  are  concerned. 

Maurice.  And  I,  on  the  other  hand,  am  rather  callous 
toward  the  sufferings  both  of  myself  and  others. 

Adolphe.  Now  he  is  not  telling  the  truth  about  himself. 
Or  what  do  you  say,  Madame  Catherine? 

Mme.  Catherine.  I  don't  know  of  anybody  with  a  softer 


ACT  I  AND   CRIMES  25 

heart  than  Monsieur  Maurice.  He  came  near  caUing  in  the 
police  because  I  didn't  give  the  goldfish  fresh  water — those 
over  there  on  the  buffet.  Just  look  at  them:  it  is  as  if  they 
could  hear  what  I  am  saj'ing. 

Maurice.  Yes,  here  we  are  making  ourselves  out  as  white 
as  angels,  and  yet  we  are,  taking  it  all  in  all,  capable  of  any 
kind  of  polite  atrocity  the  moment  glory,  gold,  or  women  are 
concerned —    So  you  are  a  sculptor.  Mademoiselle  Henriette.'' 

Henriette.  a  bit  of  one.  Enough  to  do  a  bust.  And  to 
do  one  of  you — which  has  long  been  my  cherished  dream — I 
hold  myself  quite  capable. 

Maurice.  Go  ahead!  That  dream  at  least  need  not  be 
long  in  coming  true. 

Henriette.  But  I  don't  want  to  fix  your  features  in  my 
mind  until  this  evening's  success  is  over.  Not  until  then 
will  you  have  become  what  you  should  be. 

Maurice.  How  sure  you  are  of  victory ! 

Henriette.  Yes,  it  is  written  on  your  face  that  you  are 
going  to  win  this  battle,  and  I  think  you  must  feel  that 
yourself. 

Maurice.  Why  do  you  think  so? 

Henriette.  Because  I  can  feel  it.  This  morning  I  was 
ill,  you  know,  and  now  I  am  well. 

Adolphe  begins  to  look  depressed. 

Maurice.  [Embarrassed]  Listen,  I  have  a  single  ticket  left 
— only  one.     I  place  it  at  your  disposal,  Adolphe. 

Adolphe.  Thank  you,  but  I  surrender  it  to  Henriette. 

Henriette.  But  that  wouldn't  do? 

Adolphe.  Why  not?  And  I  never  go  to  the  theatre  any- 
how, as  I  cannot  stand  the  heat. 

Henriette.  But  you  will  come  and  take  us  home  at  least 
after  the  show  is  over. 


26  THEREARECRIMES  acti 

Adolphe.  If  you  insist  on  it.  Otherwise  Maurice  has  to 
come  back  here,  where  we  shall  all  be  waiting  for  him. 

Maurice.  You  can  just  as  well  take  the  trouble  of  meet- 
ing us.  In  fact,  I  ask,  I  beg  you  to  do  so—  And  if  you 
don't  want  to  wait  outside  the  theatre,  you  can  meet  us  at 
the  Auberge  des  Adrets —     That's  settled  then,  isn't  it.'' 

Adolphe.  Wait  a  little.  You  have  a  way  of  settling 
things  to  suit  yourself,  before  other  people  have  a  chance  to 
consider  them. 

Maurice.  What  is  there  to  consider — whether  you  are  to 
see  your  lady  home  or  not.'' 

Adolphe.  You  never  know  what  may  be  involved  in  a 
simple  act  like  that,  but  I  have  a  sort  of  premonition. 

Henriette.  Hush,  hush,  hush!  Don't  talk  of  spooks 
while  the  sun  is  shining.  Let  him  come  or  not,  as  it  pleases 
him.     We  can  always  find  our  way  back  here. 

Adolphe.  [Rismg]  Well,  now  I  have  to  leave  you — model, 
you  know.  Good-bye,  both  of  you.  And  good  luck  to  you, 
Maurice.  To-morrow  you  will  be  out  on  the  right  side. 
Good-bye,  Henriette. 

Henriette.  Do  you  really  have  to  go.'' 

Adolphe.  I  must. 

Maurice.  Good-bye  then.     We'll  meet  later. 

Adolphe  goes  ont,  saluting  Mme.  Catherine  in  passing. 

Henriette.  Think  of  it,  that  we  should  meet  at  last! 

Maurice.  Do  you  find  anything  remarkable  in  that.' 

Henriette.  It  looks  as  if  it  had  to  happen,  for  Adolphe 
has  done  his  best  to  prevent  it. 

Maurice.  Has  he? 

Henriette.  Oh,  you  must  have  noticed  it. 

Maurice.  I  have  noticed  it,  but  why  should  you  mention 
it? 

Henriette.  I  had  to. 


ACT!  AND   CRIMES  27 

Maurice.  No,  and  I  don't  have  to  tell  you  that  I  wanted 
to  run  away  through  the  kitchen  in  order  to  avoid  meeting 
you  and  was  stopped  by  a  guest  who  closed  the  door  in  front 
of  me. 

Henriette.  Why  do  you  tell  me  about  it  now.? 

Maurice.  I  don't  know. 

Mme.  Catherine  upsets  a  number  of  glasses  and  bottles. 

Maurice.  That's  all  right,  Madame  Catherine.  There's 
nothing  to  be  afraid  of. 

Henriette.  Was  that  meant  as  a  signal  or  a  warning.'* 

Maurice.  Probably  both. 

Henriette.  Do  they  take  me  for  a  locomotive  that  has  to 
have  flagmen  ahead  of  it.'* 

Maurice.  And  switchmen!  The  danger  is  always  great- 
est at  the  switches. 

Henriette.  How  nasty  you  can  be! 

Mme.  Catherine.  Monsieur  Maurice  isn't  nasty  at  all. 
So  far  nobody  has  been  kinder  than  he  to  those  that  love 
him  and  trust  in  him. 

Maurice.  Sh,  sh,  sh! 

Henriette.  [To  Maurice]  The  old  lady  is  rather  imperti- 
nent. 

Maurice.  We  can  walk  over  to  the  boulevard,  if  you  care 
to  do  so. 

Henriette.  With  pleasure.  This  is  not  the  place  for  me. 
I  can  just  feel  their  hatred  clawing  at  me.  [Goes  out. 

Maurice.  [Starts  after  her]  Good-bye,  Madame  Catherine. 

Mme.  Catherine.  A  moment!  May  I  speak  a  word  to 
you.  Monsieur  Maurice.'* 

Maurice.  [Stops  umoillinghj]  What  is  it? 

Mme.  Catherine.  Don't  do  it!     Don't  do  it! 

Maurice.  What.^ 

Mme.  Catherine.  Don't  do  it! 


28  THERE  ARE   CRIMES  acti 

Maurice.  Don't  be  scared.     This  lady  is  not  my  kind, 
but  she  interests  me.     Or  hardly  that  even. 
Mme,  Catherine.  Don't  trust  yourself! 
Maurice.  Yes,  I  do  trust  myself.     Good-bye.     [Goes  out. 

Curtain. 


ACT  II 

FIRST  SCENE 

The  Auherge  des  Adrets:  a  cafe  in  sixteenth  century  style,  with 
a  suggestion  of  stage  effect.  Tables  and  easy-chairs  arc 
scattered  in  corners  and  nooks.  The  walls  are  decorated 
tcith  armour  and  weapons.  Along  the  ledge  of  the  wains- 
coting stand  glasses  and  jugs. 

Maurice  and  Henriette  are  in  evening  dress  and  sit  facing 
each  other  at  a  table  on  ivhich  stands  a  bottle  of  champagne 
and  three  filled  glasses.  Tlie  third  glass  is  placed  at  that 
side  of  the  table  which  is  nearest  the  background,  and  there 
an  easy-chair  is  kept  ready  for  the  still  missing  ''third  man.'' 

Maurice.  [Puts  his  watch  in  front  of  himself  on  the  table] 
If  he  doesn't  get  here  within  the  next  five  minutes,  he  isn't 
coming  at  all.  And  suppose  in  the  meantime  we  drink  with 
his  ghost.     [Touches  the  third  glass  with  the  rim  of  his  own. 

Henriette.  [Doing  the  same]  Here's  to  you,  Adolphe! 

Maurice.  He  won't  come. 

Henriette.  He  will  come. 

Maurice.  He  won't. 

Henriette.  He  will. 

Maurice.  What  an  evening!  What  a  wonderful  day!  I 
can  hardly  grasp  that  a  new  life  has  begun.  Think  only: 
the  manager  believes  that  I  may  count  on  no  less  than  one 
hundred  thousand  francs.  I'll  spend  twenty  thousand  on  a 
villa  outside  the  city.  That  leaves  me  eighty  thousand.  I 
won't  be  able  to  take  it  all  in  until  to-morrow,  for  I  am  tired, 

29 


30  THERE   ARE   CRIMES  act  n 

tired,  tired.  [SiJiks  back  into  the  chair]  Have  you  ever  felt 
really  happy? 

Henriette.  Never.     How  does  it  feel? 

Maurice.  I  don't  quite  know  how  to  put  it.  I  cannot  ex- 
press it,  but  I  seem  chiefly  to  be  thinking  of  the  chagrin  of 
my  enemies.     It  isn't  nice,  but  that's  the  way  it  is. 

Henriette.  Is  it  happiness  to  be  thinking  of  one's  ene- 
mies? 

Maurice.  Why,  the  victor  has  to  count  his  killed  and 
wounded  enemies  in  order  to  gauge  the  extent  of  his  victory. 

Henriette.  Are  you  as  bloodthirsty  as  all  that? 

Maurice.  Perhaps  not.  But  when  you  have  felt  the  pres- 
sure of  other  people's  heels  on  your  chest  for  years,  it  must  be 
pleasant  to  shake  off  the  enemy  and  draw  a  full  breath  at 
last. 

Henriette.  Don't  you  find  it  strange  that  .you  are  sitting 
here,  alone  with  me,  an  insignificant  girl  practically  unknown 
to  you — and  on  an  evening  like  this,  when  you  ought  to  have 
a  craving  to  show  yourself  like  a  triumphant  hero  to  all  the 
people,  on  the  boulevards,  in  the  big  restaurants? 

Maurice.  Of  course,  it's  rather  funny,  but  it  feels  good  to 
be  here,  and  your  company  is  all  I  care  for. 

Henriette.  You  don't  look  very  hilarious. 

Maurice.  No,  I  feel  rather  sad,  and  I  should  like  to  weep 
a  little. 

Henriette.  What  is  the  meaning  of  that? 

Maurice.  It  is  fortune  conscious  of  its  own  nothingness 
and  waiting  for  misfortune  to  appear. 

Henriette.  Oh  my,  how  sad !  What  is  it  you  are  missing 
anyhow? 

Maurice.  I  miss  the  only  thing  that  gives  value  to  life. 

Henriette.  So  you  love  her  no  longer  then? 

Maurice.  Not  in  the  way  I  understand  love.     Do  you 


ACTH  AND   CRIMES  31 

think  she  has  read  my  play,  or  that  she  wants  to  see  it?  Oh, 
she  is  so  good,  so  self-sacrificing  and  considerate,  but  to  go 
out  with  me  for  a  night's  fun  she  would  regard  as  sinful. 
Once  I  treated  her  to  champagne,  you  know,  and  instead  of 
feeling  happy  over  it,  she  picked  up  the  wine  list  to  see  what 
it  cost.  And  when  she  read  the  price,  she  wept — wept  be- 
cause Marion  was  in  need  of  new  stockings.  It  is  beautiful, 
of  course:  it  is  touching,  if  you  please.  But  I  can  get  no 
pleasure  out  of  it.  And  I  do  want  a  little  pleasure  before 
life  runs  out.  So  far  I  have  had  nothing  but  privation,  but 
now,  now — life  is  beginning  for  me.  [The  clock  strikes  twelve] 
Now  begins  a  new  day,  a  new  era! 

Henriette.  Adolphe  is  not  coming. 

Maurice.  No,  now  he  won't  come.  And  now  it  is  too 
late  to  go  back  to  the  Cremerie. 

Henriette.  But  they  are  waiting  for  you. 

Maurice.  Let  them  wait.  They  have  made  me  promise 
to  come,  and  I  take  back  my  promise.  Are  you  longing  to 
go  there.' 

Henriette.  On  the  contrary! 

Maurice.  Will  you  keep  me  company'  then.^ 

Henriette.  With  pleasure,  if  you  care  to  have  me. 

Maurice.  Otherwise  I  shouldn't  be  asking  you.  It  is 
strange,  you  know,  that  the  victor's  wreath  seems  worthless 
if  you  can't  place  it  at  the  feet  of  some  woman — that  every- 
thing seems  worthless  when  you  have  not  a  woman. 

Henriette.  You  don't  need  to  be  without  a  woman — you? 

Maurice.  Well,  that's  the  question. 

Henriette.  Don't  you  know  that  a  man  is  irresistible  in 
his  hour  of  success  and  fame? 

Maurice.  No,  I  don't  know,  for  I  have  had  no  experience 
of  it. 


32  THERE   ARE   CRIMES  actii 

Henriette.  You  are  a  queer  sort!  At  this  moment,  when 
you  are  the  most  envied  man  in  Paris,  you  sit  here  and  brood. 
Perhaps  your  conscience  is  troubling  you  because  you  have 
neglected  that  invitation  to  drink  chicory  coffee  with  the 
old  lady  over  at  the  milk  shop? 

Maurice.  Yes,  my  conscience  is  troubling  me  on  that 
score,  and  even  here  I  am  aware  of  their  resentment,  their 
hurt  feelings,  their  well-grounded  anger.  My  comrades  in 
distress  had  the  right  to  demand  my  presence  this  evening. 
The  good  Madame  Catherine  had  a  privileged  claim  on 
my  success,  from  which  a  glimmer  of  hope  was  to  spread  over 
the  poor  fellows  who  have  not  yet  succeeded.  And  I  have 
robbed  them  of  their  faith  in  me.  I  can  hear  the  vows  they 
have  been  making:  "Maurice  will  come,  for  he  is  a  good 
fellow;  he  doesn't  despise  us,  and  he  never  fails  to  keep  his 
word."     Now  I  have  made  them  forswear  themselves. 

While  he  is  still  speaking,  somebody  in  the  next  room  has 
begun  to  play  the  finale  of  Beethoven^s  Sonata  in 
D-minor  {Op.  31,  No.  3).  Tlie  allegretto  is  first 
played  piano,  tJien  more  forte,  and  at  last  passionately, 
violently,  with  complete  abandon. 

Maurice.  Who  can  be  playing  at  this  time  of  the  night? 

Henriette.  Probably  some  nightbirds  of  the  same  kind 
as  we.  But  listen!  Your  presentation  of  the  case  is  not 
correct.  Remember  that  Adolphe  promised  to  meet  us  here. 
We  waited  for  him,  and  he  failed  to  keep  his  promise.  So 
that  you  are  not  to  blame 

Maurice.  You  think  so?  While  you  are  speaking,  I  be- 
lieve you,  but  when  you  stop,  my  conscience  begins  again. 
What  have  you  in  that  package? 

Henriette.  Oh,  it  is  only  a  laurel  wreath  that  I  meant  to 
send  up  to  the  stage,  but  I  had  no  chance  to  do  so.  Let  me 
give  it  to  you  now — it  is  said  to  have  a  cooling  effect  on  burn- 


ACTH  AND   CRIMES  33 

ing  foreheads.  [She  rises  and  crowns  him  with  the  wreath;  then 
she  kisses  him  on  the  forehead]  Hail  to  the  victor! 

Maurice.  Don't! 

Henriette.  [Kneeling]  Hail  to  the  King! 

Maurice.  [Rising]  No,  now  you  scare  me. 

Henriette.  You  timid  man!  You  of  little  faith  who  are 
afraid  of  fortune  even!  Wlio  roblied  you  of  your  self-assur- 
ance and  turned  you  into  a  dwarf.^ 

Maurice.  A  dwarf?  Yes,  you  are  right.  I  am  not  work- 
ing up  in  the  clouds,  like  a  giant,  with  crashing  and  roaring, 
but  I  forge  my  weapons  deep  down  in  the  silent  heart  of  the 
mountain.  You  think  that  my  modesty  shrinks  before  the 
victor's  wreath.  On  the  contrary,  I  despise  it:  it  is  not 
enough  for  me.  You  think  I  am  afraid  of  that  ghost  with 
its  jealous  green  eyes  which  sits  over  there  and  keeps  watch 
on  my  feelings — the  strength  of  which  you  don't  suspect. 
Away,  ghost!  [He  brushes  the  third,  -untouched  glass  of  the 
table]  Away  with  you,  you  superfluous  third  person — you 
absent  one  who  has  lost  your  rights,  if  you  ever  had  any. 
You  stayed  away  from  the  field  of  battle  because  you  knew 
yourself  already  beaten.  As  I  crush  this  glass  under  my  foot, 
so  I  will  crush  the  image  of  yourself  which  you  have  reared 
in  a  temple  no  longer  yours. 

Henriette.  Good!  That's  the  way!  Well  spoken,  my 
hero! 

Maurice.  Now  I  have  sacrificed  my  best  friend,  my  most 
faithful  helper,  on  your  altar,  Astarte!     Are  you  satisfied? 

Henriette.  Astarte  is  a  pretty  name,  and  I'll  keep  it — 
I  think  you  love  me,  Maurice. 

Maurice.  Of  course  I  do —  Woman  of  evil  omen,  you 
who  stir  up  man's  courage  with  your  scent  of  blood,  whence 
do  you  come  and  where  do  you  lead  me?  I  loved  you  before 
I  saw  you,  for  I  trembled  when  I  heard  them  speak  of  you. 


34  THERE   ARE   CRIMES  act  ii 

And  when  I  saw  you  in  the  doorwa3%  your  soul  poured  itself 
into  mine.  And  when  you  left,  I  could  still  feel  your  presence 
in  my  arms.  I  wanted  to  flee  from  you,  but  something  held 
me  back,  and  this  evening  we  have  been  driven  together  as 
the  prey  is  driven  into  the  hunter's  net.  Whose  is  the  fault? 
Your  friend's,  who  pandered  for  us! 

Henriette.  Fault  or  no  fault:  what  does  it  matter,  and 
what  does  it  mean? —  Adolphe  has  been  at  fault  in  not 
bringing  us  together  before.  He  is  guilty  of  having  stolen 
from  us  two  weeks  of  bliss,  to  which  he  had  no  right  himself. 
I  am  jealous  of  him  on  your  behalf.  I  hate  him  because 
he  has  cheated  you  out  of  your  mistress.  I  should  like  to 
blot  him  from  the  host  of  the  living,  and  his  memory  with 
him — wipe  him  out  of  the  past  even,  make  him  unmade, 
unborn ! 

Maurice.  Well,  we'll  bury  him  beneath  our  own  memories. 
We'll  cover  him  with  leaves  and  branches  far  out  in  the  wild 
woods,  and  then  we'll  pile  stone  on  top  of  the  mound  so  that 
he  will  never  look  up  again.  [Raisijig  his  glass]  Our  fate  is 
sealed.     Woe  unto  us!     What  will  come  next? 

Henriette.  Next  comes  the  new  era —  What  have  you 
in  that  package? 

Maurice.  I  cannot  remember. 

Henriette.  [Opens  the  package  and  takes  out  a  tie  and  a 
pair  of  gloves]  That  tie  is  a  fright!  It  must  have  cost  at 
least  fifty  centimes. 

Maurice.  [Snatching  the  things  aivay  from  her]  Don't  you 
touch  them! 

Henriette.  They  are  from  her? 

Maurice.  Yes,  they  are. 

Henriette.  Give  them  to  me. 

Maurice.  No,  she's  better  than  we,  better  than  every- 
body else. 


ACT  11  AND   CRIMES  35 

Henriette.  I  don't  believe  it.  She  is  simply  stupider  and 
stingier.     One  who  weeps  because  you  order  champagne 

Maurice.  When  the  child  was  without  stockings.  Yes, 
she  is  a  good  woman. 

Henriette.  Philistine!  You'll  never  be  an  artist.  But  I 
am  an  artist,  and  I'll  make  a  bust  of  you  with  a  shopkeeper's 
cap  instead  of  the  laurel  wreath — Her  name  is  Jeanne.^ 

Maurice.  How  do  you  know.'* 

Henriette.  Why,  that's  the  name  of  all  housekeepers. 

Maurice.  Henriette! 

Henriette  takes  the  tie  and  the  gloves  and  throws  them 
into  the  fireplace. 

Maurice.  [WeaJdy]  Astarte,  now  you  demand  the  sacri- 
fice of  women.  You  shall  have  them,  but  if  you  ask  for 
innocent  children,  too,  then  I'll  send  you  packing. 

Henriette.  Can  you  tell  me  what  it  is  that  binds  you  to 
me? 

Maurice.  If  I  only  knew,  I  should  be  able  to  tear  myself 
away.  But  I  believe  it  must  be  those  qualities  which  you 
have  and  I  lack.  I  believe  that  the  evil  within  you  draws 
me  with  the  irresistible  lure  of  novelty. 

Henriette.  Have  you  ever  committed  a  crime.'' 

Maurice.  No  real  one.     Have  you.'* 

Henriette.  Yes. 

Maurice.  Well,  how  did  you  find  it.'' 

Henriette.  It  was  greater  than  to  perform  a  good  deed, 
for  by  that  we  are  placed  on  equality  with  others;  it  was 
greater  than  to  perform  some  act  of  heroism,  for  by  that  we 
are  raised  above  others  and  rewarded.  That  crime  placed 
me  outside  and  beyond  life,  society,  and  my  fellow-beings. 
Since  then  I  am  living  only  a  partial  life,  a  sort  of  dream  life, 
and  that's  why  reality  never  gets  a  hold  on  me. 

Maurice.  What  was  it  you  did.^ 


36  THEREARECRIMES  acth 

Henriette.  I  won't  tell,  for  then  you  would  get  scared 
again. 

Maurice.  Can  you  never  be  found  out? 

Henriette.  Never.  But  that  does  not  prevent  me  from 
seeing,  frequently,  the  five  stones  at  the  Place  de  Roquette, 
where  the  scaffold  used  to  stand ;  and  for  this  reason  I  never 
dare  to  open  a  pack  of  cards,  as  I  always  turn  up  the  five- 
spot  of  diamonds. 

Maurice.  Was  it  that  kind  of  a  crime.'' 

Henriette.  Yes,  it  was  that  kind. 

Maurice.  Of  course,  it's  horrible,  but  it  is  interesting. 
Have  you  no  conscience.'' 

Henriette.  None,  but  I  should  be  grateful  if  you  would 
talk  of  something  else. 

Maurice.  Suppose  we  talk  of — love? 

Henriette.  Of  that  you  don't  talk  until  it  is  over. 

Maurice.  Have  j'ou  been  in  love  with  Adolphe? 

Henriette.  I  don't  know.  The  goodness  of  his  nature 
drew  me  like  some  beautiful,  all  but  vanished  memory  of 
childhood.  Yet  there  was  much  about  his  person  that  of- 
fended my  eye,  so  that  I  had  to  spend  a  long  time  retouching, 
altering,  adding,  subtracting,  before  I  could  make  a  present- 
able figure  of  him.  When  he  talked,  I  could  notice  that  he 
had  learned  from  you,  and  the  lesson  was  often  badly  digested 
and  awkwardly  applied.  You  can  imagine  then  how  miser- 
able the  copy  must  appear  now,  when  I  am  permitted  to 
study  the  original.  That's  why  he  was  afraid  of  having  us 
two  meet;  and  when  it  did  happen,  he  understood  at  once 
that  his  time  was  up. 

Maurice.  Poor  Adolphe! 

Henriette.  I  feel  sorry  for  him,  too,  as  I  know  he  must 
be  suffering  beyond  all  bounds 

Maurice.  Sh!     Somebody  is  coming. 


ACTu  AND   CRIMES  37 

Henriette.  I  wonder  if  it  could  be  he? 

Maurice.  That  would  be  unbearable. 

Henriette.  No,  it  isn't  he,  but  if  it  had  been,  how  do  you 
think  the  situation  would  have  shaped  itself.' 

Maurice.  At  first  he  would  have  been  a  little  sore  at  you 
because  he  had  made  a  mistake  in  regard  to  the  meeting- 
place — and  tried  to  find  us  in  several  other  cafes — but  his 
soreness  would  have  changed  into  pleasure  at  finding  us — and 
seeing  that  we  had  not  deceived  him.  And  in  the  joy  at 
having  wronged  us  by  his  suspicions,  he  would  love  both  of 
us.  And  so  it  would  make  him  happy  to  notice  that  we  had 
become  such  good  friends.  It  had  always  been  his  dream 
■ — hm!  he  is  making  the  speech  now — his  dream  that  the  three 
of  us  should  form  a  triumvirate  that  could  set  the  world  a 
great  example  of  friendship  asking  for  nothing —  "Yes,  1 
trust  you,  Maurice,  partly  because  you  are  my  friend,  and 
partly  because  your  feelings  are  tied  up  elsewhere." 

Henriette.  Bravo!  You  must  have  been  in  a  similar 
situation  before,  or  you  couldn't  give  such  a  lifelike  picture 
of  it.  Do  you  know  that  Adolphe  is  just  that  kind  of  a 
third  person  who  cannot  enjoy  his  mistress  without  having 
his  friend  along? 

Maurice.  That's  why  I  had  to  be  called  in  to  entertain 
you —    Hush!    There  is  somebody  outside — •    It  must  be  he. 

Henriette.  No,  don't  you  know  these  are  the  hours  when 
ghosts  walk,  and  then  you  can  see  so  many  things,  and  hear 
them  also.  To  keep  awake  at  night,  when  you  ought  to  be 
sleeping,  has  for  me  the  same  charm  as  a  crime :  it  is  to  place 
oneself  above  and  beyond  the  laws  of  nature. 

Maurice.  But  the  punishment  is  fearful — I  am  shivering 
or  quivering,  with  cold  or  with  fear. 

Henriette.  [Wraps  her  opera  cloak  about  him]  Put  this 
on.     It  will  make  you  warm. 


38  THERE   ARE   CRIMES  actii 

Maurice.  That's  nice.  It  is  as  if  I  were  inside  of  your 
skin,  as  if  my  body  had  been  melted  up  by  lack  of  sleep  and 
were  being  remoulded  in  your  shape.  I  can  feel  the  mould- 
ing process  going  on.  But  I  am  also  growing  a  new  soul, 
new  thoughts,  and  here,  where  your  bosom  has  left  an  im- 
pression, I  can  feel  my  own  beginning  to  bulge. 

During  this  entire  scene,  the  pianist  in  the  next  room  has 

been  'practicing  the  Sonata  in  D-minor,  sometimes 

pianissimo,  sometimes  wildly  fortissimo;    noio  and 

then  he  has  kept  silent  for  a  little  while,  and  at  other 

times  nothing  has  been  heard  hut  a  part  of  the  finale: 

bars  96  to  107. 

Maurice.  What  a  monster,  to  sit  there  all  night  practicing 

on  the  piano.     It  gives  me  a  sick  feeling.     Do  you  know 

what  I  propose?     Let  us  drive  out  to  the  Bois  de  Boulogne 

and  take  breakfast  in  the  Pavilion,  and  see  the  sun  rise  over 

the  lakes. 

Henriette.  Bully! 

Maurice.  But  first  of  all  I  must  arrange  to  have  my  mail 
and  the  morning  papers  sent  out  by  messenger  to  the  Pavil- 
ion.    Tell  me,  Henriette:  shall  we  invite  Adolphe.'' 

Henriette.  Oh,  that's  going  too  far!  But  why  not.'' 
The  ass  can  also  be  harnessed  to  the  triumphal  chariot. 
Let  him  come,  [They  get  up. 

Maurice.  [Taking  off  the  cloak]  Then  I'll  ring. 
Henriette.  Wait  a  moment! 

[Throws  herself  into  his  arms. 

Curtain. 


ACTu  AND   CRIMES  39 


SECOND  SCENE 

A  large,  splendidly  furnished  restaurant  room  in  the  Bois  de 
Boidogne.  It  is  richly  carpeted  and  full  of  mirrors,  easy- 
chairs,  and  divans.  There  are  glass  doors  in  the  back- 
ground, and  beside  them  windows  overlooking  the  lakes. 
In  the  foreground  a  table  is  spread,  with  flowers  in  the 
centre,  bowls  full  of  fruit,  wine  in  decanters,  oysters  on 
platters,  many  different  kinds  of  wine  glasses,  and  two 
lighted  candelabra.  On  the  right  there  is  a  round  table 
full  of  netcspapers  and  telegrams. 

Maurice  and  Henriette  are  sitting  opposite  each  otiier  at 
this  small  table. 

The  sun  is  just  rising  outside. 

Maurice.  There  is  no  longer  any  doubt  about  it.  The 
newspapers  tell  me  it  is  so,  and  these  telegrams  congratulate 
me  on  my  success.  This  is  the  beginning  of  a  new  life,  and 
my  fate  is  wedded  to  yours  by  this  night,  when  you  were  the 
only  one  to  share  my  hopes  and  my  triumph.  From  your 
hand  I  received  the  laurel,  and  it  seems  to  me  as  if  every- 
thing had  come  from  you. 

Henriette.  What  a  wonderful  night!  Have  we  been 
dreaming,  or  is  this  something  we  have  really  lived  through? 

Maurice.  [Rising]  And  what  a  morning  after  such  a 
night!  I  feel  as  if  it  were  the  world's  first  day  that  is  now 
being  illumined  by  the  rising  sun.  Only  this  minute  was  the 
earth  created  and  stripped  of  those  white  films  that  are  now 
floating  off  into  space.  There  lies  the  Garden  of  Eden  in  the 
rosy  light  of  dawn,  and  here  is  the  first  human  couple —  Do 
you  know,  I  am  so  happy  I  could  cry  at  the  thought  that  all 
mankind  is  not  equally  happy —     Do  you  hear  that  distant 


40  THEREARECRIMES  acth 

murmur  as  of  ocean  waves  beating  against  a  rocky  shore,  as 
of  winds  sweeping  through  a  forest?  Do  you  know  what  it 
is?  It  is  Paris  whispering  my  name.  Do  you  see  the  columns 
of  smoke  that  rise  skyward  in  thousands  and  tens  of  thou- 
sands? They  are  the  fires  burning  on  my  altars,  and  if  that 
be  not  so,  then  it  must  become  so,  for  I  will  it.  At  this 
moment  all  the  telegraph  instruments  of  Europe  are  clicking 
out  my  name.  The  Oriental  Express  is  carrying  the  news- 
papers to  the  Far  East,  toward  the  rising  sun ;  and  the  ocean 
steamers  are  carrying  them  to  the  utmost  West.  The  earth 
is  mine,  and  for  that  reason  it  is  beautiful.  Now  I  should 
like  to  have  wings  for  us  two,  so  that  we  might  rise  from  here 
and  fly  far,  far  away,  before  anybody  can  soil  my  happiness, 
before  envy  has  a  chance  to  wake  me  out  of  my  dream — for 
it  is  probably  a  dream! 

Henriette.  [Holding  out  her  hand  to  him]  Here  you  can 
feel  that  you  are  not  dreaming. 

Maurice.  It  is  not  a  dream,  but  it  has  been  one.  As  a 
poor  young  man,  you  know,  when  I  was  walking  in  the  woods 
down  there,  and  looked  up  to  this  Pavilion,  it  looked  to  me 
like  a  fairy  castle,  and  always  my  thoughts  carried  me  up 
to  this  room,  with  the  balcony  outside  and  the  heavy  curtains, 
as  to  a  place  of  supreme  bliss.  To  be  sitting  here  in  company 
with  a  beloved  woman  and  see  the  sun  rise  while  the  candles 
were  still  burning  in  the  candelabra:  that  was  the  most 
audacious  dream  of  my  youth.  Now  it  has  come  true,  and 
now  I  have  no  more  to  ask  of  life —  Do  you  want  to  die 
now,  together  with  me? 

Henriette.  No,  you  fool!     Now  I  want  to  begin  living. 

Maurice.  [Rising]  To  live:  that  is  to  suffer!  Now  comes 
reality.  I  can  hear  his  steps  on  the  stairs.  He  is  panting 
with  alarm,  and  his  heart  is  beating  with  dread  of  having 
lost  what  it  holds  most  precious.     Can  you  believe  me  if  I 


ACT  II 


AND   CRIMES  41 


tell  you  that  Adolplie  is  under  this  roof?     Within  a  minute 
he  will  be  standing  in  the  middle  of  this  floor. 

Henriette.  [Alarmed]  It  was  a  stupid  trick  to  ask  him 
to  come  here,  and  I  am  already  regretting  it —  Well,  we 
shall  see  anyhow  if  your  forecast  of  the  situation  proves 
correct. 

Maurice.  Oh,  it  is  easy  to  be  mistaken  about  a  person's 
feelings. 

The  Head  Waiter  enters  with  a  card. 

Maurice.  Ask  the  gentleman  to  step  in.  [To  Henriette] 
I  am  afraid  we'll  regret  this. 

Henriette.  Too  late  to  think  of  that  now —     Hush! 
Adolphe  enters,  -pale  and  hollow-eyed. 

Maurice.  [Trying  to  speak  unconcernedly]  There  you  are! 
What  became  of  you  last  night.'* 

Adolphe.  I  looked  for  you  at  the  Hotel  des  Arrets  and 
waited  a  whole  hour. 

Maurice.  So  you  went  to  the  wrong  place.  We  were 
waiting  several  hours  for  you  at  the  Auberge  des  Adrets,  and 
we  are  still  waiting  for  you,  as  you  see. 

Adolphe.  [Relieved]  Thank  heaven! 

Henriette.  Good  morning,  Adolphe.  You  are  always 
expecting  the  worst  and  worrying  yourself  needlessly.  I 
suppose  you  imagined  that  we  wanted  to  avoid  your  com- 
pany. And  though  you  see  that  we  sent  for  you,  you  are 
still  thinking  yourself  superfluous. 

Adolphe.  Pardon  me;  I  was  wrong,  but  the  night  was 
dreadful. 

They  sit  down.     Embarrassed  silence  follows. 

Henriette.  [To  Adolphe]  Well,  are  you  not  going  to 
congratulate  Maurice  on  his  great  success? 

Adolphe.  Oh,  yes!  Your  success  is  the  real  thing,  and 
envy  itself  cannot  deny  it.     Everything  is  giving  way  before 


42  THEREARECRIMES  actu 

you,  and  even  I  have  a  sense  of  my  own  smallness  in  your 
presence. 

Maurice.  Nonsense! —  Henriette,  are  you  not  going  to 
offer  Adolphe  a  glass  of  wine? 

Adolphe.  Thank  you,  not  for  me — nothing  at  all! 

Henriette.  [To  Adolphe]  What's  the  matter  with  you? 
Are  you  ill? 

Adolphe.  Not  yet,  but 

Henriette.  Your  eyes 

Adolphe.  What  of  them? 

Maurice.  What  happened  at  the  Cremerie  last  night?  I 
suppose  they  are  angry  with  me? 

Adolphe.  Nobody  is  angry  with  you,  but  your  absence 
caused  a  depression  which  it  hurt  me  to  watch.  But  nobody 
was  angry  with  you,  believe  me.  Your  friends  understood, 
and  they  regarded  your  failure  to  come  with  sympathetic  for- 
bearance. Madame  Catherine  herself  defended  you  and  pro- 
posed your  health.  We  all  rejoiced  in  your  success  as  if  it 
had  been  our  own. 

Henriette.  Well,  those  are  nice  people!  What  good 
friends  you  have,  Maurice. 

Maurice.  Yes,  better  than  I  deserve. 

Adolphe.  Nobody  has  better  friends  than  he  deserves, 

and  you  are  a  man  greatly  blessed  in  his  friends —     Can't 

you  feel  how  the  air  is  softened  to-day  by  all  the  kind  thoughts 

and  wishes  that  stream  toward  you  from  a  thousand  breasts? 

Maurice  rises  in  order  to  hide  his  emotion. 

Adolphe.  From  a  thousand  breasts  that  you  have  rid  of 
the  nightmare  that  had  been  crushing  them  during  a  life- 
time. Humanity  had  been  slandered — and  you  have  exon- 
erated it:  that's  why  men  feel  grateful  toward  you.  To-day 
they  are  once  more  holding  their  heads  high  and  saying: 


ACTn  AND   CRIMES  43 

You  see,  we  are  a  little  better  than  our  reputation  after  all. 
And  that  thought  makes  them  better. 

Henriette  tries  to  hide  her  emotion. 

Adolphe.  Am  I  in  the  way?  Just  let  me  warm  myself  a 
little  in  your  sunshine,  Maurice,  and  then  I'll  go. 

Maurice.  Why  should  you  go  when  you  have  only  just 
arrived.'* 

Adolphe.  Why?  Because  I  have  seen  what  I  need  not 
have  seen ;  because  I  know  now  that  my  hour  is  past.  [Pause] 
That  you  sent  for  me,  I  take  as  an  expression  of  thoughtful- 
ness,  a  notice  of  what  has  happened,  a  frankness  that  hurts 
less  than  deceit.  You  hear  that  I  think  well  of  my  fellow- 
beings,  and  this  I  have  learned  from  you,  Maurice.  [Pause] 
But,  my  friend,  a  few  moments  ago  I  passed  through  the 
Church  of  St.  Germain,  and  there  I  saw  a  woman  and  a 
child.  I  am  not  wishing  that  you  had  seen  them,  for  what 
has  happened  cannot  be  altered,  but  if  you  gave  a  thought 
or  a  word  to  them  before  you  set  them  adrift  on  the  waters 
of  the  great  city,  then  you  could  enjoy  your  happiness  un- 
disturbed.    And  now  I  bid  you  good-by. 

Henriette.  Why  must  you  go? 

Adolphe.  And  you  ask  that?  Do  you  want  me  to  tell 
you? 

Henriette.  No,  I  don't. 

Adolphe.  Good-by  then !  [Goes  out. 

Maurice.  The  Fall:  and  lo!  "they  knew  that  they  were 
naked." 

Henriette.  What  a  difference  between  this  scene  and  the 
one  we  imagined !     He  is  better  than  we. 

Maurice.  It  seems  to  me  now  as  if  all  the  rest  were 
better  than  we. 

Henriette.  Do  you  see  that  the  sun  has  vanished  behind 
clouds,  and  that  the  woods  have  lost  their  rose  colour? 


44  THEREARECRIMES  acto 

Maurice.  Yes,  I  see,  and  the  blue  lake  has  turned  black. 
Let  us  flee  to  some  place  where  the  sky  is  always  blue  and  the 
trees  are  always  green, 

Henriette.  Yes,  let  us — but  without  any  farewells. 

Maurice.  No,  with  farewells. 

Henriette.  We  were  to  fly.  You  spoke  of  wings — and 
your  feet  are  of  lead.  I  am  not  jealous,  but  if  you  go  to  say 
farewell  and  get  two  pairs  of  arms  around  your  neck — then 
you  can't  tear  yourself  away. 

Maurice.  Perhaps  you  are  right,  but  only  one  pair  of 
little  arms  is  needed  to  hold  me  fast. 

Henriette.  It  is  the  child  that  holds  you  then,  and  not 
the  woman? 

Maurice.  It  is  the  child. 

Henriette.  The  child!  Another  woman's  child!  And 
for  the  sake  of  it  I  am  to  suffer.  Why  must  that  child  block 
the  way  where  I  want  to  pass,  and  must  pass? 

Maurice.  Yes,  why?  It  would  be  better  if  it  had  never 
existed. 

Henriette.  [Walks  excitedly  back  and  forth]  Indeed!  But 
now  it  does  exist.  Like  a  rock  on  the  road,  a  rock  set  firmly 
in  the  ground,  immovable,  so  that  it  upsets  the  carriage. 

Maurice.  The  triumphal  chariot! —  The  ass  is  driven  to 
death,  but  the  rock  remains.     Curse  it!  [Pause. 

Henriette.  There  is  nothing  to  do. 

Maurice.  Yes,  we  must  get  married,  and  then  our  child 
will  make  us  forget  the  other  one. 

Henriette.  This  will  kill  this! 

Maurice.  Kill!    What  kind  of  word  is  that? 

Henriette.  [Changing  tone]  Your  child  will  kill  our  love. 

Maurice.  No,  girl,  our  love  will  kill  whatever  stands  in 
its  way,  but  it  will  not  be  killed. 

Henriette,  [Opens  a  deck  of  cards  lying  on  the  mantlepiece] 


Acxn  AND   CRIMES  45 

Look  at  it!  Five-spot  of  diamonds — the  scaffold!  Can  it 
be  possible  that  our  fates  are  determined  in  advance?  That 
our  thoughts  are  guided  as  if  through  pipes  to  the  spot  for 
which  they  are  bound,  without  chance  for  us  to  stop  them? 
But  I  don't  want  it,  I  don't  want  it! —  Do  you  realise  that 
I  must  go  to  the  scaffold  if  my  crime  should  be  discovered? 

Maurice.  Tell  me  about  your  crime.  Now  is  the  time 
for  it. 

Henriette.  No,  I  should  regret  it  afterward,  and  you 
would  despise  me — no,  no,  no! —  Have  you  ever  heard  that 
a  person  could  be  hated  to  death?  Well,  my  father  incurred 
the  hatred  of  my  mother  and  my  sisters,  and  he  melted  away 
like  wax  before  a  fire.  Ugh!  Let  us  talk  of  something  else. 
And,  above  all,  let  us  get  away.  The  air  is  poisoned  here. 
To-morrow  your  laurels  will  be  withered,  the  triumph  will 
be  forgotten,  and  in  a  week  another  triumphant  hero  will 
hold  the  public  attention.  Away  from  here,  to  work  for 
new  victories!  But  first  of  all,  Maurice,  you  must  embrace 
your  child  and  provide  for  its  immediate  future.  You  don't 
have  to  see  the  mother  at  all. 

Maurice.  Thank  you !  Your  good  heart  does  you  honour, 
and  I  love  you  doubly  when  3'ou  show  the  kindness  you  gen- 
erally hide. 

Henriette,  And  then  you  go  to  the  Cremerie  and  say 
good-by  to  the  old  lady  and  your  friends.  Leave  no  unset- 
tled business  behind  to  make  your  mind  heavy  on  our  trip. 

Maurice.  I'll  clear  up  everything,  and  to-night  we  meet 
at  the  railroad  station. 

Henriette.  Agreed!  And  then:  away  from  here — away 
toward  the  sea  and  the  sun ! 

Curtain. 


ACT  III 

FIRST  SCENE 

In  the  Cremerie.     The  gas  is  lit.     Mme.  Catherine  is  seated 
at  the  counter,  Adolphe  at  a  table. 

Mme,  Catherine.  Such  is  life,  Monseiur  Adolphe.  But 
you  young  ones  are  always  demanding  too  much,  and  then 
you  come  here  and  blubber  over  it  afterward. 

Adolphe.  No,  it  isn't  that.  I  reproach  nobody,  and  I 
am  as  fond  as  ever  of  both  of  them.  But  there  is  one  thing 
that  makes  me  sick  at  heart.  You  see,  I  thought  more  of 
Maurice  than  of  anybody  else;  so  much  that  I  wouldn't  have 
grudged  him  anything  that  could  give  him  pleasure — but 
now  I  have  lost  him,  and  it  hurts  me  worse  than  the  loss  of 
her.  I  have  lost  both  of  them,  and  so  my  loneliness  is  made 
doubly  painful.  And  then  there  is  still  something  else  which 
I  have  not  yet  been  able  to  clear  up. 

Mme.  Catherine.  Don't  brood  so  much.  Work  and  di- 
vert yourself.     Now,  for  instance,  do  you  ever  go  to  church? 

Adolphe.  What  should  I  do  there  .^ 

Mme.  Catherine.  Oh,  there's  so  much  to  look  at,  and 
then  there  is  the  music.  There  is  nothing  commonplace 
about  it,  at  least. 

Adolphe.  Perhaps  not.  But  I  don't  belong  to  that  fold, 
I  guess,  for  it  never  stirs  me  to  any  devotion.  And  then, 
Madame  Catherine,  faith  is  a  gift,  they  tell  me,  and  I  haven't 
got  it  yet. 

Mme.  Catherine.  Well,  wait  till  you  get  it —  But 
what  is  this  I  heard  a  while  ago?     Is  it  true  that  you  have 

46 


ACT  III        THERE   ARE   CRIMES  47 

sold  a  picture  in  London  for  a  high  price,  and  that  you  have 
got  a  medal? 

Adolphe.  Yes,  it's  true. 

Mme.  Catherine.  Merciful  heavens! — and  not  a  word  do 
you  say  about  it? 

Adolphe.  I  am  afraid  of  fortune,  and  besides  it  seems 
almost  worthless  to  me  at  this  moment.  I  am  afraid  of  it 
as  of  a  spectre:   it  brings  disaster  to  speak  of  having  seen  it. 

Mme.  Catherine.  You're  a  queer  fellow,  and  that's  what 
you  have  always  been. 

Adolphe.  Not  queer  at  all,  but  I  have  seen  so  much  mis- 
fortune come  in  the  wake  of  fortune,  and  I  have  seen  how 
adversity  brings  out  true  friends,  while  none  but  false  ones 
appear  in  the  hour  of  success —  You  asked  me  if  I  ever 
went  to  church,  and  I  answered  evasively.  This  morning  I 
stepped  into  the  Church  of  St.  Germain  without  really  know- 
ing why  I  did  so.  It  seemed  as  if  I  were  looking  for  some- 
body in  there — somebody  to  whom  I  could  silently  offer  my 
gratitude.  But  I  found  nobody.  Then  I  dropped  a  gold 
coin  in  the  poor-box.  It  was  all  I  could  get  out  of  my  church- 
going,  and  that  was  rather  commonplace,  I  should  say. 

Mme.  Catherine.  It  was  always  something;  and  then 
it  was  fine  to  think  of  the  poor  after  having  heard  good 
news. 

Adolphe.  It  was  neither  fine  nor  anything  else:  it  was 
something  I  did  because  I  couldn't  help  myself.  But  some- 
thing more  occurred  while  I  was  in  the  church.  I  saw 
Maurice's  girl  friend,  Jeanne,  and  her  child.  Struck  down, 
crushed  by  his  triumphal  chariot,  they  seemed  aware  of  the 
full  extent  of  their  misfortune. 

Mme.  Catherine.  Well,  children,  I  don't  know  in  what 
kind  of  shape  you  keep  your  consciences.  But  how  a  decent 
fellow,  a  careful  and  considerate  man  like  Monsieur  Maurice, 


48  THERE   ARE   CRIMES         act  m 

can  all  of  a  sudden  desert  a  woman  and  her  child,  that  is 
something  I  cannot  explain. 

Adolphe.  Nor  can  I  explain  it,  and  he  doesn't  seem  to 
understand  it  himself.  I  met  them  this  morning,  and  every- 
thing appeared  quite  natural  to  them,  quite  proper,  as  if  they 
couldn't  imagme  anything  else.  It  was  as  if  they  had  been 
enjoying  the  satisfaction  of  a  good  deed  or  the  fulfilment  of 
a  sacred  duty.  There  are  things,  Madame  Catherine,  that 
we  cannot  explain,  and  for  this  reason  it  is  not  for  us  to 
judge.  And  besides,  you  saw  how  it  happened.  Maurice 
felt  the  danger  in  the  air.  I  foresaw  it  and  tried  to  prevent 
their  meeting.  Maurice  wanted  to  run  away  from  it,  but 
nothing  helped.  Why,  it  was  as  if  a  plot  had  been  laid  by 
some  invisible  power,  and  as  if  they  had  been  driven  by  guile 
into  each  other's  arms.  Of  course,  I  am  disqualified  in  this 
case,  but  I  wouldn't  hesitate  to  pronounce  a  verdict  of  "not 
guilty." 

Mme.  Catherine.  Well,  now,  to  be  able  to  forgive  as 
you  do,  that's  what  I  call  religion. 

Adolphe.  Heavens,  could  it  be  that  I  am  religious  with- 
out knowing  it. 

Mme.  Catherine.  But  then,  to  let  oneself  be  driven  or 
tempted  into  evil,  as  Monsieur  Maurice  has  done,  means 
weakness  or  bad  character.  And  if  you  feel  your  strength 
failing  you,  then  you  ask  for  help,  and  then  you  get  it.  But 
he  was  too  conceited  to  do  that—  Who  is  this  coming." 
The  Abbe,  I  think. 

Adolphe.  What  does  he  want  here? 

Abbe.  [Enters]  Good  evening,  madame.  Good  evening, 
Monsieur. 

Mme.  Catherine.  Can  I  be  of  any  service? 

Abbe.  Has  Monsieur  Maurice,  the  author,  been  here 
to-day? 


ACT  m 


AND  CRIMES  49 


Mme.  Catherine.  Not  to-day.  His  play  has  just  been 
put  on,  and  that  is  probably  keeping  him  busy. 

Abbe.  I  have — sad  news  to  bring  him.  Sad  in  several 
respects. 

Mme.  Catherine.  May  I  ask  of  what  kind? 

Abbe.  Yes,  it's  no  secret.  The  daughter  he  had  with  that 
girl,  Jeanne,  is  dead. 

Mme.  Catherine.  Dead! 

Adolphe.  Marion  dead! 

Abbe.  Yes,  she  died  suddenly  this  morning  without  any 
previous  illness. 

Mme.  Catherine.  O  Lord,  who  can  tell  Thy  ways! 

Abbe.  The  mother's  grief  makes  it  necessary  that  Monsieur 
Maurice  look  after  her,  so  we  must  try  to  find  him.  But 
first  a  question  in  confidence :  do  you  know  whether  Monsieur 
Maurice  was  fond  of  the  child,  or  was  indifferent  to  it? 

Mme.  Catherine.  If  he  was  fond  of  Marion?  Why, 
all  of  us  know  how  he  loved  her. 

Adolphe.  There's  no  doubt  about  that. 

Abbe.  I  am  glad  to  hear  it,  and  it  settles  the  matter  so  far 
as  I  am  concerned. 

Mme.  Catherine.  Has  there  been  any  doubt  about  it? 

Abbe.  Yes,  unfortunately.  It  has  even  been  rumoured  in 
the  neighbourhood  tliat  he  had  abandoned  the  child  and  its 
mother  in  order  to  go  away  with  a  strange  woman.  In  a 
few  hours  this  rumour  has  grown  into  definite  accusations, 
and  at  the  same  time  the  feeling  against  him  has  risen  to 
such  a  point  that  his  life  is  threatened  and  he  is  being  called 
a  murderer. 

Mme.  Catherine.  Good  God,  what  is  this?  What  does 
it  mean? 

Abbe.  Now  I'll  tell  you  my  opinion —  I  am  convinced 
that  the  man  is  innocent  on  this  score,  and  the  mother  feels 


50  THEREARECRIMES         actih 

as  certain  about  it  as  I  do.  But  appearances  are  against 
Monsieur  Maurice,  and  I  think  lie  will  find  it  rather  hard 
to  clear  himself  when  the  police  come  to  question  him. 

Adolphe.  Have  the  police  got  hold  of  the  matter? 

Abbe.  Yes,  the  police  have  had  to  step  in  to  protect  him 
against  all  those  ugly  rumours  and  the  rage  of  the  people. 
Probably  the  Commissaire  will  be  here  soon. 

Mme.  Catherine.  [To  Adolphe]  There  you  see  what  hap- 
pens when  a  man  cannot  tell  the  difference  between  good  and 
evil,  and  when  he  trifles  with  vice.     God  will  punish! 

Adolphe.  Then  he  is  more  merciless  than  man. 

Abbe.  What  do  you  know  about  that? 

Adolphe.  Not  very  much,  but  I  keep  an  eye  on  what 
happens 

Abbe.  And  you  understand  it  also? 

Adolphe.  Not  yet  perhaps. 

Abbe.  Let  us  look  more  closely  at  the  matter —  Oh,  here 
comes  the  Commissaire. 

Commissaire.  [Enters]  Gentlemen — Madame  Catherine — 
I  have  to  trouble  you  for  a  moment  with  a  few  questions 
concerning  Monsieur  Maurice.  As  you  have  probably  heard, 
he  has  become  the  object  of  a  hideous  rumour,  which,  by  the 
by,  I  don't  believe  in. 

Mme.  Catherine.  None  of  us  believes  in  it  either. 

Commissaire.  That  strengthens  my  own  opinion,  but  for 
his  own  sake  I  must  give  him  a  chance  to  defend  himself. 

Abbe.  That's  right,  and  I  guess  he  will  find  justice,  al- 
though it  may  come  hard. 

Commissaire.  Appearances  are  very  much  against  him, 
but  I  have  seen  guiltless  people  reach  the  scaffold  before  their 
innocence  was  discovered.  Let  me  tell  you  what  there  is 
against  him.     The  little  girl,  Marion,  being  left  alone  by  her 


ACT  in 


AND  CRIMES  51 


motlier,  was  secretly  visited  by  the  father,  who  seems  to 
have  made  sure  of  the  time  when  the  child  was  to  be  found 
alone.  Fifteen  minutes  after  his  visit  the  mother  returned 
home  and  found  the  child  dead.  All  this  makes  the  position 
of  the  accused  man  very  unpleasant —  The  post-mortem 
examination  brought  out  no  signs  of  violence  or  of  poison, 
but  the  physicians  admit  the  existence  of  new  poisons  that 
leave  no  traces  behind  them.  To  me  all  this  is  mere  coin- 
cidence of  the  kind  I  frequently  come  across.  But  here's 
something  that  looks  worse.  Last  night  Monsieur  Maurice 
was  seen  at  the  Auberge  des  Adrets  in  company  with  a  strange 
lady.  According  to  the  waiter,  they  were  talking  about 
crimes.  The  Place  de  Roquette  and  the  scaffold  were  both 
mentioned.  A  queer  topic  of  conversation  for  a  pair  of 
lovers  of  good  breeding  and  good  social  position!  But  even 
this  may  be  passed  over,  as  we  know  by  experience  that 
people  who  have  been  drinking  and  losing  a  lot  of  sleep  seem 
inclined  to  dig  up  all  the  worst  that  lies  at  the  bottom  of 
their  souls.  Far  more  serious  is  the  evidence  given  by  the 
head  waiter  as  to  their  champagne  breakfast  in  the  Bois  de 
Boulogne  this  morning.  He  says  that  he  heard  them  wish  the 
life  out  of  a  child.  The  man  is  said  to  have  remarked  that, 
"It  would  be  better  if  it  had  never  existed."  To  which  the 
woman  replied:  "Indeed!  But  now  it  does  exist."  And  as 
they  went  on  talking,  these  words  occurred:  "This  will  kill 
this!"  And  the  answer  was:  "Kill!  What  kind  of  word  is 
that.^"  And  also:  "The  five-spot  of  diamonds,  the  scaffold, 
the  Place  de  Roquette."  All  this,  you  see,  will  be  hard  to 
get  out  of,  and  so  will  the  foreign  journey  planned  for  this 
evening.     These  are  serious  matters, 

Adolphe.  He  is  lost! 

Mme.  Catherine.  That's  a  dreadful  story.  One  doesn't 
know  what  to  believe. 

LIBRARY 
UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORfW 

RIVERSIDE 


52  THEREARECRIMES         act  in 

Abbe.  This  is  not  the  work  of  man.  God  have  mercy  on 
him! 

Adolphe.  He  is  in  the  net,  and  he  will  never  get  out  of  it. 

Mme.  Catherine.  He  had  no  business  to  get  in. 

Adolphe.  Do  you  begin  to  suspect  him  also,  Madame 
Catherine? 

Mme.  Catherine.  Yes  and  no.  I  have  got  beyond  having 
an  opinion  in  this  matter.  Have  you  not  seen  angels  turn 
into  devils  just  as  you  turn  your  hand,  and  then  become 
angels  again.'' 

CoMMissAiRE.  It  certainly  does  look  queer.  However, 
we'll  have  to  wait  and  hear  what  explanations  he  can  give. 
No  one  will  be  judged  unheard.  Good  evening,  gentlemen. 
Good  evening,  Madame  Catherine.  [Goes  out. 

Abbe.  This  is  not  the  work  of  man. 

Adolphe.  No,  it  looks  as  if  demons  had  been  at  work  for 
the  undoing  of  man. 

Abbe.  It  is  either  a  punishment  for  secret  misdeeds,  or  it 
is  a  terrible  test. 

Jeanne.  [Enters,  dressed  in  mourning]  Good  evening. 
Pardon  me  for  asking,  but  have  you  seen  Monsieur  Maurice? 

Mme.  Catherine.  No,  madame,  but  I  think  he  may  be 
here  any  minute.     You  haven't  met  him  then  since 

Jeanne.  Not  since  this  morning. 

Mme.  Catherine.  Let  me  tell  you  that  I  share  in  your 
great  sorrow. 

Jeanne.  Thank  you,  madame.  [To  the  Abbe]  So  you  are 
here.  Father. 

Abbe.  Yes,  my  child.  I  thought  I  might  be  of  some  use 
to  you.  And  it  was  fortunate,  as  it  gave  me  a  chance  to 
speak  to  the  Commissaire. 

Jeanne.  The  Commissaire!  He  doesn't  suspect  Maurice 
also,  does  he? 


ACTm  AND   CRIMES  53 

Abbe.  No,  he  doesn't,  and  none  of  us  here  do.  But  ap- 
pearances are  against  him  in  a  most  appalHng  manner. 

Jeanne.  You  mean  on  account  of  the  talk  the  waiters 
overheard — it  means  nothuig  to  me,  who  has  heard  such 
things  before  when  Maurice  had  had  a  few  drinks.  Then  it 
is  his  custom  to  speculate  on  crimes  and  their  punishment. 
Besides  it  seems  to  have  been  the  woman  in  his  company 
who  dropped  the  most  dangerous  remarks.  I  should  like  to 
have  a  look  into  that  woman's  eyes. 

Adolphe.  My  dear  Jeanne,  no  matter  how  much  harm 
that  woman  may  have  done  you,  she  did  nothing  with  evil 
intention — in  fact,  she  had  no  intention  whatever,  but  just 
followed  the  promptings  of  her  nature.  I  know  her  to  be  a 
good  soul  and  one  who  can  very  well  bear  being  looked 
straight  in  the  eye. 

Jeanne.  Your  judgment  in  this  matter,  Adolphe,  has 
great  value  to  me,  and  I  believe  what  you  say.  It  means 
that  I  cannot  hold  anybody  but  myself  responsible  for  what 
has  happened.  It  is  my  carelessness  that  is  now  being 
punished.  [She  begins  to  cry. 

Abbe.  Don't  accuse  yourself  unjustly!  I  know  you,  and 
the  serious  spirit  in  which  you  have  regarded  your  mother- 
hood. That  your  assumption  of  this  responsibility  had  not 
been  sanctioned  by  religion  and  the  civil  law  was  not  your 
fault.     No,  we  are  here  facing  something  quite  different. 

Adolphe.  What  then? 

Abbe.  Who  can  tell? 

Henriette  enters,  dressed  in  travelling  suit. 

Adolphe.  [Rises  with  an  air  of  determination  and  goes  to 
meet  Henriette]  You  here? 

Henriette.  Yes,  where  is  Maurice? 

Adolphe.  Do  you  know — or  don't  you? 

Henriette.  I   know   everything.     Excuse   me,   Madame 


54  THERE   ARE   CRIMES         actiii 

Catherine,  but  I  was  ready  to  start  and  absolutely  had  to 
step  in  here  a  moment.  [To  Adolphe]  Who  is  that  woman? 
—Oh! 

Henriette  a7id  Jeanne  stare  at  each  other. 
Emile  appears  in  tlie  kitchen  door. 

Henriette.  [To  Jeanne]  I  ought  to  say  something,  but 
it  matters  very  little,  for  anything  I  can  say  must  sound  like 
an  insult  or  a  mockery.  But  if  I  ask  you  simply  to  believe 
that  I  share  your  deep  sorrow  as  much  as  anybody  standing 
closer  to  you,  then  you  must  not  turn  away  from  me.  You 
mustn't,  for  I  deserve  your  pity  if  not  your  forbearance. 

[Holds  out  her  hand. 

Jeanne.  [Looks  hard  at  her]  I  believe  you  now — and  in  the 
next  moment  I  don't.  [Takes  Henriette's  hand. 

Henriette.  [Kisses  Jeanne's  hand]  Thank  you! 

Jeanne.  [Drawing  back  her  hand]  Oh,  don't!  I  don't  de- 
serve it!     I  don't  deserve  it! 

Abbe.  Pardon  me,  but  w^hile  we  are  gathered  here  and 
peace  seems  to  prevail  temporarily  at  least,  won't  you. 
Mademoiselle  Henriette,  shed  some  light  into  all  the  uncer- 
tainty and  darkness  surrounding  the  main  point  of  accusa- 
tion? I  ask  you,  as  a  friend  among  friends,  to  tell  us  what 
you  meant  with  all  that  talk  about  killing,  and  crime,  and 
the  Place  de  Roquette.  That  your  words  had  no  connection 
with  the  death  of  the  child,  we  have  reason  to  believe,  but 
it  would  give  us  added  assurance  to  hear  what  you  were  really 
talking  about.     Won't  you  tell  us? 

Henriette.  [After  a  pause]  That  I  cannot  tell!  No,  I 
cannot ! 

Adolphe.  Henriette,  do  tell!  Give  us  the  word  that  will 
relieve  us  all. 

Henriette.  I  cannot!     Don't  ask  me! 

Abbe.  This  is  not  the  work  of  man ! 


ACTm 


AND   CRIMES  55 


Henriette.  Oh,  that  this  moment  had  to  come!  And  in 
this  manner!  [To  Jeanne]  Madame,  I  swear  that  I  am  not 
guilty  of  your  cliild's  death.     Is  that  enough? 

Jeanne.  Enough  for  us,  but  not  for  Justice. 

Henriette.  Justice !  If  you  knew  how  true  your  w^ords  are ! 

Abbe.  [To  Henriette]  And  if  you  knew  what  you  were 
saying  just  now! 

Henriette.  Do  you  know  that  better  than  I? 

Abbe.  Yes,  I  do. 

Henriette  looks  fixedly  at  the  Abbe. 

Abbe.  Have  no  fear,  for  even  if  I  guess  your  secret,  it  will 
not  be  exposed.  Besides,  I  have  nothing  to  do  with  human 
justice,  but  a  great  deal  with  divine  mercy. 

Maurice.  [Enters  hastily,  dressed  for  travelling.  He  doesnt 
look  at  the  others,  who  are  standing  in  the  background,  but  goes 
straight  up  to  the  counter,  tchere  Mme.  Catherine  is  sitting.] 
You  are  not  angry  at  me,  Madame  Catherine,  because  I 
didn't  show  up.  I  have  come  now  to  apologise  to  you  be- 
fore I  start  for  the  South  at  eight  o'clock  this  evening. 
Mme.  Catherine  is  too  startled  to  say  a  word. 

Maurice.  Then  you  are  angry  at  me?  [Looks  around] 
What  does  all  this  mean?  Is  it  a  dream,  or  what  is  it?  Of 
course,  I  can  see  that  it  is  all  real,  but  it  looks  like  a  wax 
cabinet —  There  is  Jeanne,  looking  like  a  statue  and  dressed 
in  black —  And  Henriette  looking  like  a  corpse —  What 
does  it  mean? 

All  remain  silent. 

Maurice.  Nobody  answers.  It  must  mean  something 
dreadful.  [Silence]  But  speak,  please!  Adolphe,  you  are  my 
friend,  what  is  it?  [Pointing  to  Emile]  And  there  is  a  de- 
tective ! 

Adolphe.  [Comes  forward]  You  don't  know  then? 

Maurice.  Nothing  at  all.     But  I  must  know! 


56  THERE   ARE   CRIMES         act  m 

Adolphe.  Well,  then — Marion  is  dead. 

Maurice.  Marion — dead.'' 

Adolphe.  Yes,  she  died  this  morning. 

Maurice.  [To  Jeanne]  So  that's  why  you  are  in  mourn- 
ing.    Jeanne,  Jeanne,  who  has  done  this  to  us? 

Jeanne.  He  who  holds  life  and  death  in  his  hand. 

Maurice.  But  I  saw  her  looking  well  and  happy  this 
morning.  How  did  it  happen?  Who  did  it?  Somebody 
must  have  done  it?  [His  eyes  seek  Henriette. 

Adolphe.  Don't  look  for  the  guilty  one  here,  for  there  is 
none  to  be  found.  Unfortunately  the  police  have  turned 
their  suspicion  in  a  direction  where  none  ought  to  exist. 

Maurice.  What  direction  is  that? 

Adolphe.  Well— you  may  as  well  know  that  your  reckless 
talk  last  night  and  this  morning  has  placed  you  in  a  light 
that  is  anything  but  favourable. 

Maurice.  So  they  were  listening  to  us.  Let  me  see,  what 
were  we  saying — I  remember! —     Then  I  am  lost! 

Adolphe.  But  if  you  explain  your  thoughtless  words  we 
will  believe  you. 

Maurice.  I  cannot!  And  I  will  not!  I  shall  be  sent  to 
prison,  but  it  doesn't  matter.  Marion  is  dead!  Dead! 
And  I  have  killed  her! 

General  consternation. 

Adolphe.  Think  of  what  you  are  saying!  Weigh  your 
words!     Do  you  realise  what  you  said  just  now? 

Maurice.  What  did  I  say? 

Adolphe.  You  said  that  you  had  killed  Marion. 

Maurice.  Is  there  a  human  being  here  who  could  believe 
me  a  murderer,  and  who  could  hold  me  capable  of  taking 
my  own  child's  life?  You  who  know  me,  Madame  Cather- 
ine, tell  me:  do  you  believe,  can  you  believe 

Mme.  Catherine.  I  don't  know  any  longer  what  to  be- 


ACT  m 


AND   CRIMES  57 


lieve.     What  the  heart  thinketh  the  tongue  speaketh.     And 
your  tongue  has  spoken  evil  words. 

Maurice.  She  doesn't  beHeve  me! 

Adolphe.  But  explain  your  words,  man!  Explain  what 
you  meant  by  saying  that  "your  love  would  kill  everything 
that  stood  in  its  way." 

Maurice.  So  they  know  that  too —  Are  you  willing  to 
explain  it,  Henriette.^ 

Henriette.  No,  I  cannot  do  that. 

Abbe.  There  is  something  wrong  behind  all  this  and  you 
have  lost  our  sympathy,  my  friend.  A  while  ago  I  could  have 
sworn  that  you  were  innocent,  and  I  wouldn't  do  that  now. 

Maurice.  [To  Jeanne]  What  you  have  to  say  means 
more  to  me  than  anything  else. 

Jeanne.  [Coldly]  Answer  a  question  first:  who  was  it  you 
cursed  during  that  orgie  out  there.'' 

Maurice,  Have  I  done  that  too?  Maybe.  Yes,  I  am 
guilty,  and  yet  I  am  guiltless.  Let  me  go  away  from  here, 
for  I  am  ashamed  of  myself,  and  I  have  done  more  wrong 
than  I  can  forgive  myself. 

Henriette.  [To  Adolphe]  Go  with  him  and  see  that  he 
doesn't  do  himself  any  harm. 

Adolphe.  Shall  I ? 

Henriette.  Who  else? 

Adolphe.  [Without  bitterness]  You  are  nearest  to  it —  Sh! 
A  carriage  is  stopping  outside. 

IVIme.  Catherine.  It's  the  Commissaire.  Well,  much  as 
I  have  seen  of  life,  I  could  never  have  believed  that  success 
and  fame  were  such  short-lived  things. 

Maurice.  [To  Henriette]  From  the  triumphal  chariot  to 
the  patrol  wagon ! 

Jeanne.  [Simply]  And  the  ass — who  was  that? 

Adolphe.  Oh,  that  must  have  been  me. 


58  THERE   ARE   CRIMES         act  m 

CoMMissAiRE.  [Enters  with  a  paper  in  his  hand]  A  summons 
to  Police  Headquarters — to-night,  at  once — for  Monsieur 
Maurice  Gerard — and  for  Mademoiselle  Henrietta  Mauclerc 
— both  here? 

Maurice  and  Henriette.  Yes. 

Maurice.  Is  this  an  arrest? 

CoMMissAiRE.  Not  yet.     Only  a  summons. 

Maurice.  And  then? 

CoMMissAiRE.  We  don't  know  yet. 

Maurice  and  Henriette  go  toivard  the  door. 

Maurice.  Good-bye  to  all! 

Everybody  shoivs  emotion.    The  Commissaire,  Maurice, 
and  Henriette  go  out. 

Emile.  [Enters  and  goes  up  to  Jeanne]  Now  I'll  take  you 
home,  sister. 

Jeanne.  And  what  do  you  think  of  all  this? 

Emile.  The  man  is  innocent. 

Abbe.  But  as  I  see  it,  it  is,  and  must  always  be,  something 
despicable  to  break  one's  promise,  and  it  becomes  unpardon- 
able when  a  woman  and  her  child  are  involved. 

Emile.  Well,  I  should  rather  feel  that  way,  too,  now  when 
it  concerns  my  own  sister,  but  unfortunately  I  am  prevented 
from  throwing  the  first  stone  because  I  have  done  the  same 
thing  myself. 

Abbe.  Although  I  am  free  from  blame  in  that  respect,  I 
am  not  throwing  any  stones  either,  but  the  act  condemns 
itself  and  is  punished  by  its  consequences. 

Jeanne.  Pray  for  him !     For  both  of  them ! 

Abbe.  No,  I'll  do  nothing  of  the  kind,  for  it  is  an  imperti- 
nence to  want  to  change  the  counsels  of  the  Lord.  And 
what  has  happened  here  is,  indeed,  not  the  work  of  man. 

Curtain. 


ACTiu  AND   CRIMES  59 


SECOND  SCENE 

Tlie  Auberge  des  Adrets.  Adolphe  and  Henriette  are  seated 
at  the  same  table  ichere  Maurice  and  Henriette  icere 
sitting  in  the  second  act.  A  cup  of  coffee  stands  in  front 
of  Adolphe.     Henriette  has  ordered  nothing. 

Adolphe.  You  believe  then  that  he  will  come  here.-* 

Henriette.  I  am  sure.  He  was  released  this  noon  for 
lack  of  evidence,  but  he  didn't  want  to  show  himself  in  the 
streets  before  it  was  dark. 

Adolphe.  Poor  fellow!  Oh,  I  tell  you,  life  seems  horrible 
to  me  since  yesterday. 

Henriette.  And  what  about  me?  I  am  afraid  to  live, 
dare  hardly  breathe,  dare  hardly  think  even,  since  I  know 
that  somebody  is  spying  not  only  on  my  words  but  on  my 
thoughts. 

Adolphe.  So  it  was  here  you  sat  that  night  when  I  couldn't 
find  you? 

Henriette.  Yes,  but  don't  talk  of  it.  I  could  die  from 
shame  when  I  think  of  it.  Adolphe,  you  are  made  of  a  dif- 
ferent, a  better,  stuff  than  he  or  I — — 

Adolphe.  Sh,  sh,  sh! 

Henriette.  Yes,  indeed!  And  what  was  it  that  made 
me  stay  here?  I  was  lazy;  I  was  tired;  his  success  intoxi- 
cated me  and  bewitched  me — I  cannot  explain  it.  But  if 
you  had  come,  it  would  never  have  happened.  And  to-day 
you  are  great,  and  he  is  small — less  than  the  least  of  all. 
Yesterday  he  had  one  hundred  thousand  francs.  To-day  he 
has  nothing,  because  his  play  has  been  withdrawn.  And 
public  opinion  will  never  excuse  him,  for  his  lack  of  faith 
will  be  judged  as  harshly  as  if  he  were  the  murderer,  and 


60  THERE  ARE   CRIMES         act  m 

those  that  see  farthest  hold  that  the  child  died  from  sorrow, 
so  that  he  was  responsible  for  it  anyhow. 

Adolphe.  You  know  what  my  thoughts  are  in  this  matter, 
Henriette,  but  I  should  like  to  know  that  both  of  you  are 
spotless.  Won't  you  tell  me  what  those  dreadful  words  of 
yours  meant?  It  cannot  be  a  chance  that  your  talk  in  a 
festive  moment  like  that  dealt  so  largely  with  killing  and  the 
scaffold. 

Henriette.  It  was  no  chance.  It  was  something  that 
had  to  be  said,  something  I  cannot  tell  you — probably  be- 
cause I  have  no  right  to  appear  spotless  in  your  eyes,  seeing 
that  I  am  not  spotless. 

Adolphe.  All  this  is  beyond  me. 

Henriette.  Let  us  talk  of  something  else —  Do  you  be- 
lieve there  are  many  unpunished  criminals  at  large  among 
us,  some  of  whom  may  even  be  our  intimate  friends.^ 
Adolphe.  [NervouMy]  Why?  W'hat  do  you  mean? 
Henriette.  Don't  you  believe  that  every  human  being  at 
some  time  or  another  has  been  guilty  of  some  kind  of  act 
which  would  fall  under  the  law  if  it  were  discovered? 

Adolphe.  Yes,  I  believe  that  is  true,  but  no  evil  act 
escapes  being  punished  by  one's  own  conscience  at  least. 
[Rises  and  unbuttons  his  coat]  And — nobody  is  really  good 
who  has  not  erred.  [Breathing  heavily]  For  in  order  to  know 
how  to  forgive,  one  must  have  been  in  need  of  forgiveness — 
I  had  a  friend  whom  we  used  to  regard  as  a  model  man.  He 
never  spoke  a  hard  word  to  anybody;  he  forgave  everything 
and  everybody;  and  he  suffered  insults  with  a  strange  satis- 
faction that  we  couldn't  explain.  At  last,  late  in  life,  he 
gave  me  his  secret  in  a  single  word:   I  am  a  penitent! 

[lie  sits  down  again. 

Henriette  remains  silent,  looking  at  him  with  surprise. 

Adolphe.   [As  if  speaking  to  himself]  There  are  crimes  not 


ACT  III 


AND   CRIMES  61 


mentioned  in  the  Criminal  Code,  and  tlicse  are  the  worse 
ones,  for  they  have  to  be  punislied  hy  ourselves,  and  no 
judge  could  be  more  severe  than  we  are  against  our  own 
selves. 

Henriette.  [After  a  pause]  Well,  that  friend  of  yours,  did 
he  find  peace? 

Adolphe.  After  endless  self-torture  he  reached  a  certain 
degree  of  composure,  but  life  had  never  any  real  pleasures  to 
offer  him.  He  never  dared  to  accept  any  kind  of  distinction; 
he  never  dared  to  feel  himself  entitled  to  a  kind  word  or  even 
well-earned  praise:  in  a  word,  he  could  never  quite  forgive 
himself. 

Henriette.  Never.'     Wliat  had  he  done  then.^ 

Adolphe.  He  had  wished  the  life  out  of  his  father.  And 
when  his  father  suddenly  died,  the  son  imagined  himself 
to  have  killed  him.  Those  imaginations  were  regarded  as 
signs  of  some  mental  disease,  and  he  was  sent  to  an  asylum. 
From  this  he  was  discharged  after  a  time  as  wholly  recov- 
ered— as  they  put  it.  But  the  sense  of  guilt  remained  with 
him,  and  so  he  continued  to  punish  himself  for  his  evil 
thoughts. 

Henriette.  Are  you  sure  the  evil  will  cannot  kill.'' 

Adolphe.  You  mean  in  some  mystic  way."^ 

Henriette.  As  you  please.  Let  it  go  at  mystic.  In  my 
own  family — I  am  sure  that  my  mother  and  my  sisters 
killed  my  father  with  their  hatred.  You  see,  he  had  the 
awful  idea  that  he  must  oppose  all  our  tastes  and  inclina- 
tions. Wherever  he  discovered  a  natural  gift,  he  tried  to 
root  it  out.  In  that  way  he  aroused  a  resistance  that  accu- 
mulated until  it  became  like  an  electrical  battery  charged 
with  hatred.  At  last  it  grew  so  powerful  that  he  languished 
away,  became  depolarised,  lost  his  will-power,  and,  in  the 
end,  came  to  wish  himself  dead. 


62  THERE   ARE   CRIMES         act  m 

Adolphe.  And  your  conscience  never  troubled  j'ou? 

Henriette.  No,  and  furthermore,  I  don't  know  what 
conscience  is. 

Adolphe.  You  don't?  Well,  then  you'll  soon  learn. 
[Pause]  How  do  you  believe  Maurice  will  look  when  he  gets 
here?     What  do  you  think  he  will  say? 

Henriette.  Yesterday  morning,  you  know,  he  and  I 
tried  to  make  the  same  kind  of  guess  about  you  while  we 
were  waiting  for  you. 

Adolphe.  Well? 

Henriette.  We  guessed  entirely  wrong. 

Adolphe.  Can  you  tell  me  why  you  sent  for  me? 

Henriette.  Malice,  arrogance,  outright  cruelty! 

Adolphe.  How  strange  it  is  that  you  can  admit  your 
faults  and  yet  not  repent  of  them. 

Henriette.  It  must  be  because  I  don't  feel  quite  respon- 
sible for  them.  They  are  like  the  dirt  left  behind  by  things 
handled  during  the  day  and  washed  off  at  night.  But  tell 
me  one  thing:  do  you  really  think  so  highly  of  humanity  as 
you  profess  to  do? 

Adolphe.  Yes,  we  are  a  little  better  than  our  reputation — 
and  a  little  worse. 

Henriette.  That  is  not  a  straightforward  answer. 

Adolphe.  No,  it  isn't.  But  are  you  willing  to  answer  me 
frankly  when  I  ask  you:  do  you  still  love  Maurice? 

Henriette.  I  cannot  tell  until  I  see  him.  But  at  this 
moment  I  feel  no  longing  for  him,  and  it  seems  as  if  I  could 
very  well  live  without  him. 

Adolphe.  It's  likely  you  could,  but  I  fear  you  have  be- 
come chained  to  his  fate — Sh!     Here  he  comes. 

Henriette.  How  everything  repeats  itself.  The  situa- 
tion is  the  same,  the  very  words  are  the  same,  as  when  we 
were  expecting  you  yesterday. 


ACTiu  AND   CRIMES  63 

Maurice.  [Enters,  pale  as  death,  Iwlloio-cyed,  unshaven] 
Here  I  am,  my  dear  friends,  if  this  be  me.  For  that  last 
night  in  a  cell  changed  me  into  a  new  sort  of  being. 

[Notices  Henriette  and  Adolphe. 

Adolphe.  Sit  down  and  pull  yourself  together,  and  then 
we  can  talk  things  over. 

Maurice.  [To  Henriette]  Perhaps  I  am  in  the  way? 

Adolphe.  Now,  don't  get  bitter. 

Maurice.  I  have  grown  bad  in  these  twenty-four  hours, 
and  suspicious  also,  so  I  guess  I'll  soon  be  left  to  myself. 
And  who  wants  to  keep  company  with  a  murderer.^ 

Henriette.  But  you  have  been  cleared  of  the  charge. 

Maurice.  [Picks  up  a  newspaper]  By  the  police,  yes,  but 
not  by  public  opinion.  Here  you  see  the  murderer  Maurice 
Gerard,  once  a  playwright,  and  his  mistress,  Henriette 
Mauclerc 

Henriette.  O  my  mother  and  my  sisters — my  mother! 
Jesus  have  mere}'! 

Maurice.  And  can  you  see  that  I  actually  look  like  a 
murderer.''  And  then  it  is  suggested  that  my  play  was 
stolen.  So  there  isn't  a  vestige  left  of  the  victorious  hero 
from  yesterday.  In  place  of  my  own,  the  name  of  Octave, 
my  enemy,  appears  on  the  bill-boards,  and  he  is  going  to  col- 
lect my  one  hundred  thousand  francs.  O  Solon,  Solon! 
Such  is  fortune,  and  such  is  fame!  You  are  fortunate, 
Adolphe,  because  you  have  not  yet  succeeded. 

Henriette.  So  you  don't  know  that  Adolphe  has  made  a 
great  success  in  London  and  carried  off  the  first  prize.'' 

Maurice.  [Darkly]  No,  I  didn't  know  that.  Is  it  true, 
Adolphe? 

Adolphe.  It  is  true,  but  I  have  returned  the  prize. 

Henriette.  [WUh  emphasis]  That  I  didn't  know!    So  you 


G4  THERE   ARE   CRIMES         act  m 

are    also   prevented    from    accepting    any    distinctions — like 
your  friend? 

Adolphe.  My  friend?  [Embarrassed]  Oh,  yes,  yes! 

Maurice.  Your  success  gives  me  pleasure,  but  it  puts  us 
still  farther  apart. 

Adolphe.  That's  what  I  expected,  and  I  suppose  I'll  be 
as  lonely  with  my  success  as  you  with  your  adversity.  Think 
of  it — that  people  feel  hurt  by  your  fortune !  Oh,  it's  ghastly 
to  be  alive! 

Maurice.  You  say  that!  What  am  I  then  to  say?  It  is 
as  if  my  eyes  had  been  covered  with  a  black  veil,  and  as  if 
the  colour  and  shape  of  all  life  had  been  changed  by  it.  This 
room  looks  like  the  room  I  saw  yesterday,  and  yet  it  is  quite 
different.  I  recognise  both  of  you,  of  course,  but  your  faces 
are  new  to  me.  I  sit  here  and  search  for  words  because  I 
don't  know  what  to  say  to  you.  I  ought  to  defend  myself, 
but  I  cannot.  And  I  almost  miss  the  cell,  for  it  protected 
me,  at  least,  against  the  curious  glances  that  pass  right 
through  me.  The  murderer  Maurice  and  his  mistress! 
You  don't  love  me  any  longer,  Henriette,  and  no  more  do  I 
care  for  you.  To-day  you  are  ugly,  clumsy,  insipid,  repulsive. 
Two  men  in  civilian  clothes  have  quietly  seated  them- 
selves at  a  table  in  the  background. 

Adolphe.  Wait  a  little  and  get  your  thoughts  together. 
That  you  have  been  discharged  and  cleared  of  all  suspicion 
must  appear  in  some  of  the  evening  papers.  And  that  puts 
an  end  to  the  whole  matter.  Your  play  will  be  put  on  again, 
and  if  it  comes  to  the  worst,  you  can  write  a  new  one.  Leave 
Paris  for  a  year  and  let  everything  become  forgotten.  You 
who  have  exonerated  mankind  will  be  exonerated  yourself. 

Maurice.  Ha-ha!     Mankind!     Ha-ha! 

Adolphe.  You  have  ceased  to  believe  in  goodness? 

Maurice.  Yes,  if  I  ever  did  believe  in  it.     Perhaps  it  was 


ACT  III 


AND   CRIMES  65 


only  a  niood,  a  manner  of  looking  at  tilings,  a  way  of  being 
polite  to  the  wild  beasts.  When  I,  who  was  held  among  the 
best,  ean  he  so  rotten  to  the  core,  what  must  then  be  the 
wretchedness  of  the  rest? 

Adolphe.  Now  I'll  go  out  and  get  all  the  evening  papers, 
and  then  we'll  undoubtedly  have  reason  to  look  at  things  in 
a  different  way. 

Maurice.  [Turning  toximrd  the  background]  Two  detectives ! 
— It  means  that  I  am  released  under  surveillance,  so  that  I 
can  give  myself  away  by  careless  talking. 

Adolphe.  Those  are  not  detectives.  That's  only  your 
imagination.     I  recognise  both  of  them. 

[Goes  totoard  the  door. 

Maurice.  Don't  leave  us  alone,  Adolphe.  I  fear  that 
Henriette  and  I  may  come  to  open  explanations. 

Adolphe.  Oh,  be  sensible,  Maurice,  and  think  of  your 
future.  Try  to  keep  him  quiet,  Henriette.  I'll  be  back  in 
a  moment.  [Goes  out. 

Henriette.  Well,  Maurice,  what  do  you  think  now  of 
our  guilt  or  guiltlessness.'* 

Maurice.  I  have  killed  nobody.  All  I  did  was  to  talk  a 
lot  of  nonsense  while  I  was  drunk.  But  it  is  your  crime  that 
comes  back,  and  that  crime  you  have  grafted  on  to  me. 

Henriette.  Oh,  that's  the  tone  you  talk  in  now! — Was  it 
not  you  who  cursed  your  own  child,  and  wished  the  life  out 
of  it,  and  wanted  to  go  away  without  saying  good-bye  to  any- 
body? And  was  it  not  I  who  made  you  visit  Marion  and 
show  yourself  to  Madame  Catherine? 

Maurice.  Yes,  you  are  right.  Forgive  me!  You  proved 
yourself  more  human  than  I,  and  the  guilt  is  wholly  my  own. 
Forgive  me!  But  all  the  same  I  am  without  guilt.  Who 
has  tied  this  net  from  which  I  can  never  free  myself?  Guilty 
and  guiltless:   guiltless  and  yet  guilty!     Oh,  it  is  driving  me 


66  THERE   ARE   CRIMES         act  m 

mad —  Look,  now  they  sit  over  there  and  Hsten  to  us — 
And  no  waiter  eomes  to  take  our  order.  I'll  go  out  and  order 
a  cup  of  tea.     Do  you  want  anything? 

Henriette.  Nothing. 
Maurice  goes  out. 

First  Detective.  [Goes  up  to  Henriette]  Let  me  look 
at  your  papers. 

Henriette.  How  dare  you  speak  to  me? 

Detective.  Dare.''     I'll  show  you! 

Henriette.  What  do  you  mean.? 

Detective.  It's  my  job  to  keep  an  eye  on  street- walkers. 
Yesterday  you  came  here  with  one  man,  and  to-day  with 
another.  That's  as  good  as  walking  the  streets.  And  un- 
escorted ladies  don't  get  anything  here.  So  you'd  better  get 
out  and  come  along  with  me. 

Henriette.  My  escort  will  be  back  in  a  moment. 

Detective.  Yes,  and  a  pretty  kind  of  escort  you've  got — 
the  kind  that  doesn't  help  a  girl  a  bit! 

Henriette.  O  God!  My  mother,  my  sisters! —  I  am  of 
good  family,  I  tell  you. 

Detective.  Yes,  first-rate  family,  I  am  sure.  But  you 
are  too  well  known  through  the  papers.     Come  along! 

Henriette.  Where?     What  do  you  mean? 

Detective.  Oh,  to  the  Bureau,  of  course.  There  you'll 
get  a  nice  little  card  and  a  license  that  brings  you  free  medical 
care. 

Henriette.  O  Lord  Jesus,  you  don't  mean  it! 

Detective.  [Grabbing  Henriette  by  the  arm]  Don't  I 
mean  it? 

Henriette.  [Falling  on  her  knees]  Save  me,  Maurice! 
Help! 

Detective.  Shut  up,  you  fool! 

Maurice  enters,  folloived  by  Waiter. 


ACT  m 


AND   CRIMES  67 


Waiter.  Gentlemen  of  that  kind  are  not  served  here. 
You  just  pay  and  get  out!     And  take  the  girl  along! 

Maurice.  [Crushed,  searches  his  pocket-book  for  money] 
Henriette,  pay  for  me,  and  let  us  get  away  from  this  place. 
I  haven't  a  sou  left. 

Waiter.  So  the  lady  has  to  put  up  for  her  Alphonse! 
Alphonse!     Do  you  know  what  that  is? 

Henriette.  [Looking  through  her  pocket-book]  Oh,  merciful 
heavens!  I  have  no  money  either! — Why  doesn't  Adolphe 
come  back? 

Detective.  Well,  did  you  ever  see  such  rotters!  Get  out 
of  here,  and  put  up  something  as  security.  That  kind  of 
ladies  generally  have  their  fingers  full  of  rings. 

Maurice.  Can  it  be  possible  that  we  have  sunk  so  low? 

Henriette.  [Takes  off  a  ring  and  hands  it  to  the  Waiter] 
The  Abbe  was  right:  this  is  not  the  work  of  man. 

Maurice.  No,  it's  the  devil's! —  But  if  we  leave  before 
Adolphe  returns,  he  will  think  that  we  have  deceived  him 
and  run  away. 

Henriette.  That  would  be  in  keeping  with  the  rest — 
But  we'll  go  into  the  river  now,  won't  we? 

Maurice.  [Takes  Henriette  by  the  hand  as  they  walk  out 
together]  Into  the  river — yes! 

Curtain. 


ACT  IV 

FIRST  SCENE 

In  the  Luxembourg  Gardens,  at  the  group  of  Adam  and  Eve. 
The  wind  is  shaking  the  trees  and  stirring  up  dead  leaves, 
straivs,  and  pieces  of  paper  from  the  ground. 

Maurice  and  Henriette  are  seated  on  a  bench. 

Henriette.  So  you  don't  want  to  die? 

Maurice.  No,  I  am  afraid.  I  imagine  that  I  am  going 
to  be  very  cold  down  there  in  the  grave,  with  only  a  sheet  to 
cover  me  and  a  few  shavings  to  lie  on.  And  besides  that,  it 
seems  to  me  as  if  there  were  still  some  task  waiting  for  me, 
but  I  cannot  make  out  what  it  is. 

Henriette.  But  I  can  guess  what  it  is. 

Maurice.  Tell  me. 

Henriette.  It  is  revenge.  You,  like  me,  must  have  sus- 
pected Jeanne  and  Emile  of  sending  the  detectives  after  me 
yesterday.  Such  a  revenge  on  a  rival  none  but  a  woman 
could  devise. 

Maurice.  Exactly  what  I  was  thinking.  But  let  me  tell 
you  that  my  suspicions  go  even  further.  It  seems  as  if  my 
sufferings  during  these  last  few  days  had  sharpened  my  wits. 
Can  you  explain,  for  instance,  why  the  waiter  from  the 
Auberge  des  Adrets  and  the  head  waiter  from  the  Pavilion 
were  not  called  to  testify  at  the  hearing? 

Henriette.  I  never  thought  of  it  before.  But  now  I 
know  why.  They  had  nothing  to  tell,  because  they  had  not 
been  listening. 

68 


ACT  IV         THERE   ARE   CRIMES  69 

Maurice.  But  how  could  the  Commissaire  then  know 
what  we  had  been  saying? 

Henriette.  He  didn't  know,  but  he  figured  it  out.  He 
was  guessing,  and  he  guessed  right.  Perhaps  he  had  had  to 
deal  with  some  similar  case  before. 

Maurice.  Or  else  he  concluded  from  our  looks  what  we 
had  been  saying.  There  are  those  who  can  read  other 
people's  thoughts —  Adolphe  being  the  dupe,  it  seemed 
quite  natural  that  we  should  have  called  him  an  ass.  It's 
the  rule,  I  understand,  although  it's  varied  at  times  by  the 
use  of  "idiot"  instead.  But  ass  was  nearer  at  hand  in  this 
case,  as  we  had  been  talking  of  carriages  and  triumphal 
chariots.  It  is  quite  simple  to  figure  out  a  fourth  fact, 
when  you  have  three  known  ones  to  start  from. 

Henriette.  Just  think  that  we  have  let  ourselves  be 
taken  in  so  completely. 

Maurice.  That's  the  result  of  thinking  too  well  of  one's 
fellow  beings.  This  is  all  j'ou  get  out  of  it.  But  do  you 
know,  I  suspect  somebody  else  back  of  the  Commissaire, 
who,  by-the-bye,  must  be  a  full-fledged  scoundrel. 

Henriette.  You  mean  the  Abbe,  who  was  taking  the  part 
of  a  private  detective. 

Maurice.  That's  what  I  mean.  That  man  has  to  receive 
all  kinds  of  confessions.  And  note  you:  Adolphe  himself 
told  us  he  had  been  at  the  Church  of  St.  Germain  that  morn- 
ing. What  was  he  doing  there.''  He  was  blabbing,  of  course, 
and  bewailing  his  fate.  And  then  the  priest  put  the  ques- 
tions together  for  the  Commissaire. 

Henriette.  Tell  me  something:  do  you  trust  Adolphe.? 

Maurice.  I  trust  no  human  being  any  longer. 

Henriette.  Not  even  Adolphe? 

Maurice.  Him  least  of  all.  How  could  I  trust  an  enemy 
— a  man  from  whom  I  have  taken  away  his  mistress? 


70  THERE  ARE  CRIMES         act  iv 

Henriette.  Well,  as  you  were  the  first  one  to  speak  of 
this,  I'll  give  you  some  data  about  our  friend.  You  heard 
he  had  returned  that  medal  from  London.  Do  you  know 
his  reason  for  doing  so? 

Maurice.  No. 

Henriette.  He  thinks  himself  unworthy  of  it,  and  he  has 
taken  a  penitential  vow  never  to  receive  any  kind  of  dis- 
tinction. 

Maurice.  Can  that  be  possible.?     But  what  has  he  done? 

Henriette.  He  has  committed  a  crime  of  the  kind  that 
is  not  punishable  under  the  law.  That's  what  he  gave  me 
to  understand  indirectly. 

Maurice.  He,  too!  He,  the  best  one  of  all,  the  model 
man,  who  never  speaks  a  hard  word  of  anybody  and  who 
forgives  everything. 

Henriette.  Well,  there  you  can  see  that  we  are  no  worse 
than  others.  And  yet  we  are  being  hounded  day  and  night 
as  if  devils  were  after  us. 

Maurice.  He,  also!  Then  mankind  has  not  been  slan- 
dered—  But  if  he  has  been  capable  of  one  crime,  then  you 
may  expect  anything  of  him.  Perhaps  it  was  he  who  sent  the 
police  after  you  yesterday.  Coming  to  think  of  it  now,  it 
was  he  who  sneaked  away  from  us  when  he  saw  that  we  were 
in  the  papers,  and  he  lied  when  he  insisted  that  those 
fellows  were  not  detectives.  But,  of  course,  you  may  ex- 
pect anything  from  a  deceived  lover. 

Henriette.  Could  he  be  as  mean  as  that?  No,  it  is  im- 
possible, impossible! 

Maurice.  Why  so?  If  he  is  a  scoundrel.?—  What  were 
you  two  talking  of  yesterday,  before  I  came? 

Henriette.  He  had  nothing  but  good  to  say  of  you. 

Maurice.  That's  a  lie! 

Henriette.  [Controlling    herself   and    changing    her   tone] 


ACT  IV 


AND   CRIMES  71 


Listen.  There  is  one  person  on  whom  you  have  cast  no  sus- 
picion whatever — for  what  reason,  I  don't  know.  Have  you 
thought  of  Madame  Catherine's  wavering  attitude  in  this 
matter.'*  Didn't  she  say  finally  that  she  believed  you  capa- 
ble of  anythmg.' 

Maurice.  Yes,  she  did,  and  that  shows  what  kind  of 
person  she  is.  To  think  evil  of  other  people  without  reason, 
you  must  be  a  villain  yourself. 

Henriette  looks  hard  at  him.     Pause. 

Henriette.  To  think  evil  of  others,  you  must  be  a  villain 
yourself. 

Maurice.  What  do  you  mean.^ 

Henriette.  What  I  said. 

Maurice.  Do  you  mean  that  I ? 

Henriette.  Yes,  that's  what  I  mean  now!  Look  here! 
Did  you  meet  anybody  but  Marion  when  you  called  there 
yesterday  morning.^ 

Maurice.  Why  do  you  ask.?* 

Henriette.  Guess! 

Maurice.  Well,  as  you  seem  to  know — I  met  Jeanne,  too. 

Henriette.  Why  did  you  lie  to  me? 

Maurice.  I  wanted  to  spare  you. 

Henriette.  And  now  you  want  me  to  believe  in  one  who 
has  been  lying  to  me?  No,  my  boy,  now  I  believe  you  guilty 
of  that  murder. 

Maurice.  Wait  a  moment!  We  have  now  reached  the 
place  for  which  my  thoughts  have  been  heading  all  the  time, 
though  I  resisted  as  long  as  possible.  It's  queer  that  what 
lies  next  to  one  is  seen  last  of  all,  and  what  one  doesn't  ward 
to  believe  cannot  be  believed —  Tell  me  something:  where 
did  you  go  yesterday  morning,  after  we  parted  in  the  Bois? 

Henriette.  [Alarmed]  Why? 


72  THEREARECRIMES         activ 

Maurice,  You  went  either  to  Adolphe — which  you  coukhi't 
do,  as  he  was  attending  a  lesson — or  you  went  to — Marion! 

Henriette,  Now  I  am  convinced  that  you  are  the  mur- 
derer. 

Maurice.  And  I,  that  you  are  the  murderess!  You  alone 
had  an  interest  in  getting  the  child  out  of  the  way — to  get 
rid  of  the  rock  on  the  road,  as  you  so  aptly  put  it. 

Henriette.  It  was  you  who  said  that. 

Maurice.  And  the  one  who  had  an  interest  in  it  must 
have  committed  the  crime. 

Henriette.  Now,  Maurice,  we  have  been  running  around 
and  around  in  this  tread-mill,  scourging  each  other.  Let  us 
quit  before  we  get  to  the  point  of  sheer  madness. 

Maurice.  You  have  reached  that  point  already. 

Henriette.  Don't  you  think  it's  time  for  us  to  part, 
before  we  drive  each  other  insane.'^ 

Maurice.  Yes,  I  think  so. 

Henriette.  [Risifig]  Good-bye  then! 

Two  men  in  civilian  clothes  become  visible  in  the  back- 
ground. 

Henriette.  [Turns  and  comes  bade  to  Maurice]  There 
they  are  again ! 

Maurice.  The  dark  angels  that  want  to  drive  us  out  of 
the  garden. 

Henriette.  And  force  us  back  upon  each  other  as  if  we 
were  chained  together. 

Maurice.  Or  as  if  we  were  condemned  to  lifelong  mar- 
riage. Are  we  really  to  marry  .^  To  settle  down  in  the  same 
place?  To  be  able  to  close  the  door  behind  us  and  perhaps 
get  peace  at  last? 

Henriette.  And  shut  ourselves  up  in  order  to  torture 
each  other  to  death;  get  behind  locks  and  bolts,  with  a  ghost 
for  marriage  portion;    you  torturing  me  with  the  memory 


ACT  IV 


AND   CRIMES  73 


of  Adolphe,  and  I  getting  back  at  you  with  Jeanne — and 
Marion. 

Maurice.  Never  mention  the  name  of  IMarion  again! 
Don't  you  know  that  she  was  to  be  buried  to-day — at  this 
very  moment  perhaps? 

Henriette.  And  you  are  not  there.''  What  does  that 
mean.'* 

Maurice.  It  means  that  both  Jeanne  and  the  poUce  have 
warned  me  against  the  rage  of  the  people. 

Henriette.  A  coward,  too.'' 

Maurice.  All  the  vices!  How  could  you  ever  have  cared 
for  me.'' 

Henriette.  Because  two  days  ago  you  were  another  per- 
son, well  worthy  of  being  loved 

Maurice.  And  now  sunk  to  such  a  depth! 

Henriette.  It  isn't  that.  But  you  are  beginning  to  flaunt 
bad  qualities  which  are  not  your  own. 

Maurice.  But  yours? 

Henriette.  Perhaps,  for  when  you  appear  a  little  worse 
I  feel  myself  at  once  a  little  better. 

Maurice.  It's  like  passing  on  a  disease  to  save  one's  self- 
respect. 

Henriette.  And  how  vulgar  you  have  become,  too! 

Maurice.  Yes,  I  notice  it  myself,  and  I  hardly  recognise 
myself  since  that  night  in  the  cell.  They  put  in  one  person 
and  let  out  another  through  that  gate  which  separates  us 
from  the  rest  of  society.  And  now  I  feel  mxself  the  enemy 
of  all  mankind:  I  should  like  to  set  fire  to  the  earth  and  dry 
up  the  oceans,  for  nothing  less  than  a  universal  conflagration 
can  wipe  out  my  dishonour. 

Henriette.  I  had  a  letter  from  my  mother  to-day.  She 
is  the  widow  of  a  major  in  the  army,  well  educated,  with  old- 
fashioned  ideas  of  honour  and  that  kind  of  thing.     Do  you 


74  THERE  ARE   CRIMES         act  iv 

want  to  read  the  letter?  No,  you  don't! —  Do  you  know 
that  I  am  an  outcast?  My  respectable  acquaintances  will 
have  nothing  to  do  with  me,  and  if  I  show  myself  on  the 
streets  alone  the  police  will  take  me.  Do  you  realise  now 
that  we  have  to  get  married? 

Maurice.  We  despise  each  other,  and  yet  we  have  to 
marry:  that  is  hell  pure  and  simple!  But,  Henriette,  before 
we  unite  our  destinies  you  must  tell  me  your  secret,  so  that 
we  may  be  on  more  equal  terms. 

Henriette.  All  right,  I'll  tell  you.  I  had  a  friend  who 
got  into  trouble — you  understand.  I  wanted  to  help  her,  as 
her  whole  future  was  at  stake — and  she  died ! 

Maurice.  That  was  reckless,  but  one  might  almost  call 
it  noble,  too. 

Henriette.  You  say  so  now,  but  the  next  time  you  lose 
your  temper  you  will  accuse  me  of  it. 

Maurice.  No,  I  won't.  But  I  cannot  deny  that  it  has 
shaken  my  faith  in  you  and  that  it  makes  me  afraid  of  you. 
Tell  me,  is  her  lover  still  alive,  and  does  he  know  to  what 
extent  you  were  responsible? 

Henriette.  He  was  as  guilty  as  I. 

Maurice.  And  if  his  conscience  should  begin  to  trouble 
him — such  things  do  happen — and  if  he  should  feel  inclined 
to  confess:  then  you  would  be  lost. 

Henriette.  I  know  it,  and  it  is  this  constant  dread  which 
has  made  me  rush  from  one  dissipation  to  another — so  that  I 
should  never  have  time  to  wake  up  to  full  consciousness. 

Maurice.  And  now  you  want  me  to  take  my  marriage 
portion  out  of  your  dread.     That's  asking  a  little  too  much. 

Henriette.  But  when  I  shared  the  shame  of  Maurice 
the  murderer 

Maurice.  Oh,  let's  come  to  an  end  with  it! 

Henriette.  No,  the  end  is  not  yet,  and  I'll  not  let  go  my 


ACT  IV  AND   CRIMES  75 

hold  until  I  have  put  you  where  you  belong.     For  you  can't 
go  around  thinking  yourself  better  than  I  am. 

Maurice.  So  you  want  to  fight  me  then.''  All  right,  as 
you  please! 

Henriette.  a  fight  on  life  and  death! 

The  rolling  of  drums  is  heard  in  the  distance. 

Maurice.  The  garden  is  to  be  closed.  "Cursed  is  the 
ground  for  thy  sake;  thorns  and  thistles  shall  it  bring  forth 
to  thee." 

Henriette.  "And  the  Lord  God  said  unto  the  woman " 

A  Guard.  [In  uniform,  speaking  very  politely]  Sorry,  but 
the  garden  has  to  be  closed. 

Curtain. 

SECOND  SCENE 

The  Cremerie.  Mme.  Catherine  is  sitting  at  the  counter 
making  entries  into  an  account  book.  Adolphe  and 
Henriette  are  seated  at  a  table. 

Adolphe.  [Calmly  and  kindly]  But  if  I  give  you  my  final 
assurance  that  I  didn't  run  away,  but  that,  on  the  contrary, 
I  thought  you  had  played  me  false,  this  ought  to  convince 
you. 

Henriette.  But  why  did  you  fool  us  by  saying  that  those 
fellows  were  not  policemen.'' 

Adolphe.  I  didn't  think  myself  that  they  were,  and  then 
I  wanted  to  reassure  you. 

Henriette.  When  you  say  it,  I  believe  you.  But  then 
you  must  also  believe  me,  if  I  reveal  my  innermost  thoughts 
to  you. 

Adolphe.  Go  on. 


76  THEREARECRIMES         activ 

Henriette.  But  you  mustn't  come  back  with  your  usual 
talk  of  fancies  and  delusions. 

Adolphe.  You  seem  to  have  reason  to  fear  that  I  may. 

Henriette.  I  fear  nothing,  but  I  know  you  and  your 
scepticism —  Well,  and  then  you  mustn't  tell  this  to  any- 
body— promise  me! 

Adolphe.  I  promise. 

Henriette.  Now  think  of  it,  although  I  must  say  it's 
something  terrible:  I  have  partial  evidence  that  Maurice  is 
guilty,  or  at  least,  I  have  reasonable  suspicions 

Adolphe.  You  don't  mean  it! 

Henriette.  Listen,  and  judge  for  yourself.  When  Mau- 
rice left  me  in  the  Bois,  he  said  he  was  going  to  see  Marion 
alone,  as  the  mother  was  out.  And  now  I  have  discovered 
afterward  that  he  did  meet  the  mother.  So  that  he  has 
been  lying  to  me. 

Adolphe.  That's  possible,  and  his  motive  for  doing  so 
may  have  been  the  best,  but  how  can  anybody  conclude 
from  it  that  he  is  guilty  of  a  murder.^ 

Henriette.  Can't  you  see  that? —  Don't  you  under- 
stand? 

Adolphe.  Not  at  all. 

Henriette.  Because  you  don't  want  to! —  Then  there 
is  nothing  left  for  me  but  to  report  him,  and  we'll  see  whether 
he  can  prove  an  alibi. 

Adolphe.  Henriette,  let  me  tell  you  the  grim  truth.  You, 
like  he,  have  reached  the  border  line  of — insanity.  The 
demons  of  distrust  have  got  hold  of  you,  and  each  of  you  is 
using  his  own  sense  of  partial  guilt  to  wound  the  other  with. 
Let  me  see  if  I  can  make  a  straight  guess:  he  has  also  come 
to  suspect  you  of  killing  his  child? 

Henriette.  Yes,  he's  mad  enough  to  do  so. 

Adolphe.  You  call  his  suspicions  mad,  but  not  your  own. 


ACT  IV 


AND   CRIMES  77 


Henriette.  You  liave  first  to  prove  the  eontrary,  or  that 
I  suspect  him  unjustly. 

Adolphe.  Yes,  that's  easy.  A  new  autopsy  has  proved 
that  Marion  died  of  a  well-known  disease,  the  queer  name  of 
which  I  cannot  recall  just  now. 

Henriette.  Is  it  true? 

Adolphe.  The  official  report  is  printed  in  to-day's  paper. 

Henriette.  I  don't  take  any  stock  in  it.  They  can  make 
up  that  kind  of  thing. 

Adolphe.  Beware,  Henriette — or  you  may,  without  know- 
ing it,  pass  across  that  border  line.  Beware  especially  of 
throwing  out  accusations  that  may  put  you  into  prison. 
Beware!  [He  places  his  hand  on  her  head]  You  hate  Maurice.^ 

Henriette.  Bej'ond  all  bounds! 

Adolphe.  When  love  turns  into  hatred,  it  means  that  it 
was  tainted  from  the  start. 

Henriette.  [In  a  quieter  mood]  What  am  I  to  do?  Tell 
me,  you  who  are  the  only  one  that  understands  me. 

Adolphe.  But  you  don't  want  any  sermons. 

Henriette.  Have  you  nothing  else  to  offer  me? 

Adolphe.  Nothing  else.     But  they  have  helped  me. 

Henriette.  Preach  away  then ! 

Adolphe.  Try  to  turn  your  hatred  against  yourself.  Put 
the  knife  to  the  evil  spot  in  yourself,  for  it  is  there  that  your 
trouble  roots. 

Henriette.  Explain  yourself. 

Adolphe.  Part  from  Maurice  first  of  all,  so  that  you  cannot 
nurse  your  qualms  of  conscience  together.  Break  off  your 
career  as  an  artist,  for  the  only  thing  that  led  you  into  it  was 
a  craving  for  freedom  and  fun — as  they  call  it.  And  you 
have  seen  now  how  much  fun  there  is  in  it.  Then  go  home 
to  your  mother. 

Henriette.  Never! 


78  THERE   ARE   CRIMES         act  iv 

Adolphe.  Some  other  place  then. 

Henriette.  I  suppose  you  know,  Adolphe,  that  I  have 
guessed  your  secret  and  why  you  wouldn't  accept  the  prize? 

Adolphe.  Oh,  I  assumed  that  you  would  understand  a 
half-told  story. 

Henriette.  Well — what  did  you  do  to  get  peace? 

Adolphe,  What  I  have  suggested:  I  became  conscious  of 
my  guilt,  repented,  decided  to  turn  over  a  new  leaf,  and 
arranged  my  life  like  that  of  a  penitent. 

Henriette.  How  can  you  repent  when,  like  me,  you  have 
no  conscience?  Is  repentance  an  act  of  grace  bestowed  on 
you  as  faith  is? 

Adolphe.  Everything  is  a  grace,  but  it  isn't  granted  un- 
less you  seek  it —     Seek! 

Henriette  remains  silent. 

Adolphe.  But  don't  wait  beyond  the  allotted  time,  or  you 
may  harden  yourself  until  you  tumble  down  into  the  irre- 
trievable. 

Henriette.  [After  a  pause]  Is  conscience  fear  of  punish- 
ment? 

Adolphe.  No,  it  is  the  horror  inspired  in  our  better  selves 
by  the  misdeeds  of  our  lower  selves. 

Henriette.  Then  I  must  have  a  conscience  also? 

Adolphe.  Of  course  you  have,  but 

Henriette.  Tell  me,  Adolphe,  are  you  what  they  call 
religious? 

Adolphe.  Not  the  least  bit. 

Henriette.  It's  all  so  queer —     What  is  religion? 

Adolphe.  Frankly  speaking,  I  don't  know!  And  I  don't 
think  anybody  else  can  tell  you.  Sometimes  it  appears  to 
me  like  a  punishment,  for  nobody  becomes  religious  without 
having  a  bad  conscience. 


ACT  IV 


AND   CRIMES  79 


Henriette.  Yes,  it  is  a  punishment.  Now  I  know  what 
to  do.     Good-bye,  Adolphe! 

Adolphe.  You'll  go  away  from  here.' 

Henriette.  Yes,I  am  going — to  where  you  said.  Good-bye 
my  friend!     Good-bye,  Madame  Catherine! 

Mme.  Catherine.    Have  you  to  go  in  such  a  hurry? 

Henriette.  Yes. 

Adolphe.  Do  you  want  me  to  go  with  you.'' 

Henriette.  No,  it  wouldn't  do.  I  am  going  alone,  alone 
as  I  came  here,  one  day  in  Spring,  thinking  that  I  belonged 
where  I  don't  belong,  and  believing  there  was  something 
called  freedom,  which  does  not  exist.     Good-bye!     [Goes  out. 

Mme.  Catherine.  I  hope  that  lady  never  comes  back, 
and  I  wish  she  had  never  come  here  at  all! 

Adolphe.  Who  knows  but  that  she  may  have  had  some 
mission  to  fill  here.'*  And  at  any  rate  she  deserves  pit}', 
endless  pity. 

Mme.  Catherine.  I  don't  deny  it,  for  all  of  us  deserve 
that. 

Adolphe.  And  she  has  even  done  less  wrong  than  the  rest 
of  us. 

Mme.  Catherine.  That's  possible,  but  not  probable. 

Adolphe.  You  are  always  so  severe,  Madame  Catherine. 
Tell  me:   have  you  never  done  anything  wrong? 

Mme.  Catherine.  [Startled]  Of  course,  as  I  am  a  sinful 
human  creature.  But  if  you  have  been  on  thin  ice  and 
fallen  in,  you  have  a  right  to  tell  others  to  keep  away.  And 
you  may  do  so  without  being  held  severe  or  uncharitable. 
Didn't  I  say  to  Monsieur  Maurice  the  moment  that  lady 
entered  here:  Look  out!  Keep  away!  And  he  didn't,  and 
so  he  fell  in.  Just  like  a  naughty,  self-willed  child.  And 
when  a  man  acts  like  that  he  has  to  have  a  spanking,  like 
any  disobedient  youngster. 


80  THERE  ARE   CRIMES         act  iv 

Adolphe.  Well,  hasn't  he  had  his  spanking? 

Mme.  Catherine.  Yes,  but  it  does  not  seem  to  have  been 
enough,  as  he  is  still  going  around  complaining. 

Adolphe.  That's  a  very  popular  interpretation  of  the 
whole  intricate  question. 

Mme.  Catherine.  Oh,  pish!  You  do  nothing  but  phil- 
osopliise  about  your  vices,  and  while  you  are  still  at  it  the 
police  come  along  and  solve  the  riddle.  Now  please  leave 
me  alone  with  my  accounts ! 

Adolphe.  There's  Maurice  now. 

Mme.  Catherine.     Yes,  God  bless  him! 

Maurice.  [Enters,  his  face  very  flushed,  and  takes  a  seat 
near  Adolphe]  Good  evening. 

Mme.  Catherine  nods  and  goes  on  figuring. 

Adolphe.  Well,  how's  everything  with  you.^* 

Maurice.  Oh,  beginning  to  clear  up. 

Adolphe.  [Hands  him  a  newspaper,  which  Maurice  does 
not  take]  So  you  have  read  the  paper  .^ 

Maurice.  No,  I  don't  read  the  papers  any  longer.  There's 
nothing  but  infamies  in  them. 

Adolphe.  But  you  had  better  read  it  first 

Maurice.  No,  I  won't!  It's  nothing  but  lies —  But  listen: 
I  have  found  a  new  clue.  Can  you  guess  who  committed  that 
murder.^ 

Adolphe.  Nobody,  nobody! 

Maurice.  Do  you  know  where  Henriette  was  during  that 
quarter  hour  when  the  child  was  left  alone? —  She  was 
there!     And  it  is  she  who  has  done  it! 

Adolphe.  You  are  crazy,  man. 

Maurice.  Not  I,  but  Henriette,  is  crazy.  She  suspects 
me  and  has  threatened  to  report  me. 

Adolphe.  Henriette  was  here  a  while  ago,  and  she  used 
the  self-same  words  as  you.     Both  of  you  are  crazy,  for  it 


ACT  IV  AND   CRIMES  81 

has  been  proved  by  a  second  autopsy  that  the  child  died 
from  a  well-known  disease,  the  name  of  which  I  have  for- 
gotten. 

Maurice.  It  isn't  true! 

Adolphe.  That's  what  she  said   also.     But  the  official 
report  is  printed  in  tlie  paper. 

Maurice.  A  report?     Then  they  have  made  it  up! 

Adolphe.  And  that's  also  what  she  said.  The  two  of  you 
are  suffering  from  the  same  mental  trouble.  But  with  her 
I  got  far  enough  to  make  her  realise  her  own  condition. 

Maurice.  Where  did  she  go? 

Adolphe.  She  went  far  away  from  here  to  begin  a  new 
life. 

Maurice.  Hm,  hm! —     Did  you  go  to  the  funeral? 

Adolphe.  I  did. 

Maurice.  Well? 

Adolphe.  Well,  Jeanne  seemed  resigned  and  didn't  have 
a  hard  word  to  say  about  you. 

Maurice.  She  is  a  good  woman. 

Adolphe.  Why  did  you  desert  her  then? 

Maurice.  Because  I  was  crazy — blown  up  with  pride 
especially — and  then  we  had  been  drinking  champagne 

Adolphe.  Can  you  understand  now  why  Jeanne  wept 
when  you  drank  champagne? 

Maurice.  Yes,  I  understand  now —  And  for  that  reason 
I  have  already  written  to  her  and  asked  her  to  forgive  me — 
Do  you  think  she  will  forgive  me? 

Adolphe.  I  think  so,  for  it's  not  like  her  to  hate  anj^body. 

Maurice.  Do  you  think  she  will  forgive  me  completely, 
so  that  she  will  come  back  to  me? 

Adolphe.  Well,  I  don't  know  about  thati  You  have 
shown  yourself  so  poor  in  keeping  faith  that  it  is  doubtful 
whether  she  will  trust  her  fate  to  you  any  longer. 


82  THEREARECRIMES         activ 

Maurice.  But  I  can  feel  that  her  fondness  for  me  has  not 
ceased,  and  I  know  she  will  come  back  to  me. 

Adolphe.  How  can  you  know  that?  How  can  you  be- 
lieve it?  Didn't  you  even  suspect  her  and  that  decent 
brother  of  hers  of  having  sent  the  police  after  Henriette  out 
of  revenge? 

Maurice.  But  I  don't  believe  it  any  longer — that  is  to 
say,  I  guess  that  fellow  Emile  is  a  pretty  slick  customer. 

Mme.  Catherine.  Now  look  here!  What  are  you  saying 
of  Monsieur  Emile?  Of  course,  he  is  nothing  but  a  work- 
man, but  if  everybody  kept  as  straight  as  he —  There  is 
no  flaw  in  him,  but  a  lot  of  sense  and  tact. 

Emile.  [Enters]  Monsieur  Gerard? 

Maurice.  That's  me. 

Emile.  Pardon  me,  but  I  have  something  to  say  to  you 
in  private. 

Maurice.  Go  right  on.     We  are  all  friends  here. 
The  Abbe  enters  and  sits  down. 

Emile.  [With  a  glance  at  the  Abbe]  Perhaps  after 

Maurice.  Never  mind.  The  Abbe  is  also  a  friend,  al- 
though he  and  I  differ. 

Emile.  You  know  who  I  am.  Monsieur  Gerard?  My 
sister  has  asked  me  to  give  you  this  package  as  an  answer 
to  your  letter. 

Maurice  takes  the  package  and  opens  it. 

Emile.  And  now  I  have  only  to  add,  seeing  as  I  am  in  a 
way  my  sister's  guardian,  that,  on  her  behalf  as  well  as  my 
own,  I  acknowledge  you  free  of  all  obligations,  now  when  the 
natural  tie  between  you  does  not  exist  any  longer. 

Maurice.  But  you  must  have  a  grudge  against  me? 

Emile.  Must  I?  I  can't  see  why.  On  the  other  hand,  I 
should  like  to  have  a  declaration  from  you,  here  in  the  pres- 
ence of  your  friends,  that  you  don't  think  either  me  or  my 


ACT  IV 


AND   CRIMES  83 


sister  capable  of  such  a  meanness  as  to  send  the  police  after 
Mademoiselle  Henriette. 

Maurice.  I  wish  to  take  back  what  I  said,  and  I  offer  you 
my  apology,  if  you  will  accept  it. 

Emile.  It  is  accepted.  And  I  wish  all  of  you  a  good 
evening.  [Goes  out. 

Everybody.  Good  evening! 

Maurice.  The  tie  and  the  gloves  which  Jeanne  gave  me 
for  the  opening  night  of  my  play,  and  which  I  let  Henriette 
throw  into  the  fireplace.  Who  can  have  picked  them  up? 
Everything  is  dug  up ;  everything  comes  back ! —  And  when 
she  gave  them  to  me  in  the  cemetery,  she  said  she  wanted 
me  to  look  fine  and  handsome,  so  that  other  people  would 
like  me  also —  And  she  herself  stayed  at  home —  This 
hurt  her  too  deeply,  and  well  it  might.  I  have  no  right  to 
keep  company  with  decent  human  beings.  Oh,  have  I  done 
this?  Scoffed  at  a  gift  coming  from  a  good  heart;  scorned  a 
sacrifice  offered  to  my  own  welfare.  This  was  what  I  threw 
away  in  order  to  get — a  laurel  that  is  lying  on  the  rubbish 
heap,  and  a  bust  that  would  have  belonged  in  the  pillory — 
Abbe,  now  I  come  over  to  you. 

Abbe.  Welcome! 

Maurice.  Give  me  the  word  that  I  need. 

Abbe.  Do  you  expect  me  to  contradict  your  self-accusa- 
tions and  inform  you  that  you  have  done  nothing  wrong. ^ 

Maurice.  Speak  the  right  word! 

Abbe.  With  your  leave,  I'll  say  then  that  I  have  found 
your  behaviour  just  as  abominable  as  you  have  found  it 
yourself. 

Maurice.  What  can  I  do,  what  can  I  do,  to  get  out  of 
this? 

Abbe.  You  know  as  well  as  I  do. 

Maurice.  No,  I  know  only  that  I  am  lost,  that  my  life 


84  THERE   ARE   CRIMES         act  iv 

is  spoiled,  my  career  cut  off,  my  reputation  in  this  world 
ruined  forever. 

Abbe.  And  so  you  are  looking  for  a  new  existence  in  some 
better  world,  which  you  are  now  beginning  to  believe  in.'^ 

Maurice.  Yes,  that's  it. 

Abbe.  You  have  been  living  in  the  flesh  and  you  want 
now  to  live  in  the  spirit.  Are  you  then  so  sure  that  this 
world  has  no  more  attractions  for  you? 

Maurice.  None  whatever!  Honour  is  a  phantom;  gold, 
nothing  but  dry  leaves;  women,  mere  intoxicants.  Let  me 
hide  myself  behind  your  consecrated  walls  and  forget  this 
horrible  dream  that  has  filled  two  days  and  lasted  two 
eternities. 

Abbe.  All  right!  But  this  is  not  the  place  to  go  into  the 
matter  more  closely.  Let  us  make  an  appointment  for  this 
evening  at  nine  o'clock  in  the  Church  of  St.  Germain.  For  I 
am  going  to  preach  to  the  inmates  of  St.  Lazare,  and  that 
may  be  your  first  step  along  the  hard  road  of  penitence. 

Maurice.  Penitence.? 

Abbe.  Well,  didn't  you  wish 

Maurice.  Yes,  yes! 

Abbe.  Then  we  have  vigils  between  midnight  and  two 
o'clock. 

Maurice.  That  will  be  splendid ! 

Abbe.  Give  me  your  hand  that  you  will  not  look  back. 

Maurice,  [Rising,  holds  out  his  hand]  Here  is  my  hand, 
and  my  will  goes  with  it. 

Servant  Girl.  [Enters  from  the  kitchen]  A  telephone  call 
for  Monsieur  Maurice. 

Maurice.  From  whom? 

Servant  Girl.  From  the  theatre. 

Maurice  tries  to  get  away,  but  the  Abbe  holds  on  to  his 
hand. 


ACT  IV  AND   CRIMES  85 

Abbe.  [To  the  Servant  Giul]  Find  out  what  it  is. 

Servant  Girl.  They  want  to  know  if  Monsieur  Maurice 
is  going  to  attend  the  performance  to-night. 

Abbe.  [To  Maurice,  wlio  is  trying  to  get  away\  No,  I 
won't  let  you  go. 

Maurice.  What  performance  is  that? 

Adolphe.  Why  don't  you  read  the  paper.'* 

Mme.  Catherine  and  the  Abbe.  He  hasn't  read  the  paper.'' 

Maurice.  It's  all  lies  and  slander.  [To  the  Servant  Girl] 
Tell  them  that  I  am  engaged  for  this  evening :  I  am  going  to 
church. 

The  Servant  Girl  goes  out  into  the  kitchen. 

Adolphe.  As  you  don't  want  to  read  the  paper,  I  shall 
have  to  tell  you  that  your  play  has  been  put  on  again,  now 
when  you  are  exonerated.  And  your  literary  friends  have 
planned  a  demonstration  for  this  evening  in  recognition  of 
your  indisputable  talent. 

Maurice.  It  isn't  true. 

Everybody.  It  is  true. 

Maurice.  [After  a  pause]  I  have  not  deserved  it! 

Abbe.  Good! 

Adolphe.  And  furthermore,  Maurice 

Maurice.  [Hiding  his  face  in  his  hands}  Furthermore! 

Mme.  Catherine.  One  hundred  thousand  francs!  Do 
you  see  now  that  they  come  back  to  you.''  And  the  villa 
outside  the  city.  Everything  is  coming  back  except  Made- 
moiselle Henriette. 

Abbe.  [Smiling]  You  ought  to  take  this  matter  a  little 
more  seriously,  Madame  Catherine. 

Mme.  Catherine.  Oh,  I  cannot — I  just  can't  keep  serious 
any  longer! 

[She  breaks  into  open  laughter,  which  she  vainly  tries  to 
smother  with  her  handkerchief. 


86  THEREARECRIMES         activ 

Adolphe.  Say,  Maurice,  the  play  begins  at  eight. 

Abbe.  But  the  church  services  are  at  nine. 

Adolphe.  Maurice! 

Mme.  Catherine.  Let  us  hear  what  the  end  is  going  to 
be.  Monsieur  Maurice. 

Maurice  drops  his  head  on  the  table,  in  his  arms. 

Adolphe.  Loose  him,  Abbe! 

Abbe.  No,  it  is  not  for  me  to  loose  or  bind.  He  must  do 
that  himself. 

Maurice.  [Rising]  Well,  I  go  with  the  Abbe. 

Abbe.  No,  my  young  friend.  I  have  nothing  to  give  you 
but  a  scolding,  which  you  can  give  yourself.  And  you  owe 
a  duty  to  yourself  and  to  your  good  name.  That  you  have 
got  through  with  this  as  quickly  as  you  have  is  to  me  a  sign 
that  you  have  suffered  your  punishment  as  intensely  as  if  it 
had  lasted  an  eternity.  And  when  Providence  absolves  you 
there  is  nothing  for  me  to  add. 

Maurice.  But  why  did  the  punishment  have  to  be  so 
hard  when  I  was  innocent .'' 

Abbe.  Hard?  Only  two  days!  And  you  were  not  inno- 
cent. For  we  have  to  stand  responsible  for  our  thoughts 
and  words  and  desires  also.  And  in  your  thought  you  be- 
came a  murderer  when  your  evil  self  wished  the  life  out  of 
your  child. 

Maurice.  You  are  right.  But  my  decision  is  made. 
To-night  I  will  meet  you  at  the  church  in  order  to  have  a 
reckoning  with  myself — but  to-morrow  evening  I  go  to  the 
theatre. 

Mme.  Catherine.  A  good  solution.  Monsieur  Maurice. 

Adolphe.  Yes,  that  is  the  solution.     Whew! 

Abbe.  Yes,  so  it  is! 

!  Curtain. 


/lY 


Date  Due 


f.  . 


APR  1  6 
APR  11 

DEC  1 


JUN  2 


yiHiJLS 


'm 


u. 


1966  !i 
4  1969 


M977 


mA 


mat  JAK  2  5  T98(y 


Library  Bureau  Cat.  No.   1137 


3  1210  00079  8 


48       of 


Pr98l2 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


AA  000  653  952  2 

B7A3 


•V   s  'n  Ni  a3j.NiMd                       aiJOiAvo 

Sf  *ON 

1 

1 

''  I 

\ 

i 

-----                                                                                                    _ 

St  rindb  erg,  Augu  s t . 

There  are  cri-^es  and  crimes. 


